


Lead Us Not Into Temptation

by BlueKiwi



Category: Dresden Files - All Media Types, Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Gen, Implied Incest, Implied Sexual Content, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:54:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 63,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueKiwi/pseuds/BlueKiwi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We all grow up with the weight of history on us. Our ancestors dwell in the attics of our brains as they do in the spiraling chains of knowledge hidden in every cell of our bodies." Families define who you are. When you're a Raith, that itself is either a curse or a blessing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lara

**| 1 |**

_So far as he is able, a prince should stick to the path of good but, if necessity arises, he should know how to follow evil._

::

When we arrived in the winter of 1520, there had been speculation.

Rumors swirled - as rumors happen to do in court - about where we had come from, and the common consensus was that we had fled the wars in Italy, though it was never confirmed by either my Lord or his siblings; I’m sure it led to an impregnable air of mystery around us which none of us sought to dispel. We children were too young to know why we had left the brilliant excellence of Italy, and only barely knew of the whispers that surrounded us. It was agreed upon that the three adults were exceptionally beautiful, though there was a primal sense of brilliance that went much deeper than mere physical attraction, and I saw more than one person fall to the allure. But these things were not spoken of even if everyone knew - unlike many liaisons, the silence had more to do with fear than propriety.

Outside of these brief affairs, we mostly kept to ourselves. Our aloofness and our foreignness together would have been – _should_ have been – fatal to our social standing, pushing us to very edges of the king’s court. But when the whispers of intrigue died after several months as new stories began circulating the English court, we did not so much fade into the background as become court ornaments – beautiful, mystifying, and simply _there_. The king himself didn't seem to mind us (although that may have had more to do with my lady than anything, but no one ever said anything about _that_ , not even my Lord).

 Who suspects the ones who are quiet, who seem almost docile in their manners and dealings?

There was a sense of wild danger about my Lord and the others too – I heard that many supposed that the three were siblings, close enough in age and appearance to make one wonder about their parentage, but the quiet reverence and respect given to my Lord could make anyone believe that he was the patriarchal lord and master over them, over us. It was an oddity, and eventually many passed it off as a strange Italian familial function.

 If they knew...

I know, even now, that there were and are some who still wonder, but they never say anything – the English court is filled with quiet but very real dangers; one did not simply speak their mind without knowing one’s allies, and the Raiths are certainly allied with no one. There is no doubt that vicious rumors about us could end murderously.

Yes, over time, it was a silent agreement that the adults were to be treated with wary caution and respect.

And what of us? Too young to remember why we had arrived, too innocent and fearful to ask.

A fateful, childish mistake.

:::

_York_ _Palace_  
 _London_ _, England_

Laughter and music filled the high-ceilinged chamber, torches throwing golden shadows and light across the ladies and lords in the room. The air was thick with the smell of smoke from the myriads of candles and of citrus, of sweat and something distinctly floral. The satin-clad young men had already seized the gaudily-colored wooden castle at the far end of the hall, the floor sprinkled with dates and oranges. Polite applause intermingled with murmurs of conversation as the unmasked ladies in the white dresses – the Virtues – were led onto the dance floor by their rescuers, the pageant in full swing.

As one of the ladies passed by another of the dancers, she murmured, “The king has his eye on you, sister.”

The other young woman glanced at the tall, handsome form of the English monarch from where he danced amongst the group, his laughter boisterous and his blue eyes twinkling with mirth. Her too-wide mouth lifted in a delicate smile, and she laughed quietly as she brushed against her sister in a whisper of white silk. “The king has eyes for many women. But I suspect that only Mary Boleyn has been warming his bed lately.”

The younger girl frowned and kept her voice to a murmur, passing through the simple steps of the dance with enviable grace. The Boleyn girl in question was only a few feet away, blushing every time the king threw a lascivious glance her way. “If you wanted…”

“It’s not what _I_ want, Natalia,” the other said, glancing quickly over in the direction of a handsome, dark-haired man with an unreadable expression on his face, seemingly bored by the fanciful pageant. Flanking him on both sides were her aunt and uncle, both of them exceptionally attractive but lacking the same commanding presence as her father. The courtly spectators had unconsciously given them a small but visible berth that made her want to hide a smile - she didn’t know why such respect (or perhaps it was fear) was bestowed upon foreigners, but it was amusing to see the sometimes nervous or wary glances the vipers in court would send their way.

She saw that Natalia didn’t follow her gaze, instead sweeping into a low curtsy along with the rest of the ladies as the music signaled the end of the dance. She was prettier than her elder sister - many courtiers had said so and many of the same had somehow found the nerve to ask their father for her hand in marriage. _All_ of them had been turned away disappointed.

As soon as the dance was over, Natalia flitted over to her sister’s side, slipping her arm through hers in sisterly camaraderie. “Yes, but...” She glanced over her shoulder as she drew her sister away from the gossiping lords and ladies.

Her sister, despite being taller and more lithe in form, allowed herself to be pulled away. The smile she gave was fierce and swift. “The king shall not have me, if Father does not wish it.”

Natalia smiled, but she didn’t look convinced. “He’s very particular.”

They found a secluded corner at the far end of the hall, although their white dresses and headpieces would have made them stand out regardless. Their partners, however, didn’t seek to follow them, having already descended upon two fair-haired ladies who simpered and giggled at the sudden attention by the handsome lords. Natalia took a seat on one of the benches as servants scurried about to begin preparing for the banquet that was to follow.

Her sister remained standing and kept her voice low. “Particular, yes. But our situation is precarious.” She looked around at the golden-lit chamber, brilliant candlelight flickering in her dark eyes. “They respect Father, but they do not know what to make of us. I’ve seen how they’ve looked at us, Natalia, how they’ve looked at _you_. I’m sure someone would gladly humiliate him through us if they had the chance.” _Very gladly_ , she thought, glancing over in the direction of their fellow dancers who still mingled near the center of the room, making the servants’ task more difficult. It left a bitter taste in her mouth – the adults were treated with suspicious respect but whispers and knowing smirks always seemed to follow her, her sister, and her two cousins wherever they went.

“You think so?”

“It is what I would do.” Natalia’s lips quirked up in a smile at her sister’s words. “Every royal court is full of conspirators, and I doubt that the English are the pinnacles of respectability in that area.” She reached up to idly tuck away a loose strand of dark brown hair. “I shall leave the _danza macabra_ to those who want to gain favor with His Highness.”

“You sound so _sure_.”

“I’m not. I’d just rather not involve myself in courtly politics.” Frustration passed over her face. “Do you know how tiring it would be to keep up with who fathered what child, who insulted which diplomatic envoy, and which lady is spreading her legs for which courtier? It would be _tiring_.”

Natalia laughed.

“What delights you so much, dear niece?”

Both Natalia and her sister turned at the sound of the silvery-soft voice to see a beautiful woman standing just behind them, dressed in still-enviable Italian styles, blues and silvers and whites dancing against milk-white skin to make her appearance similiar to that of a living ice sculpture. She was small and delicate-looking, with a lush mouth always tilted upward in a shrewd smile and long, elaborately-decorated hair black as ebony. The only sign that she wasn’t as fragile as a flower were her smoke-blue eyes – too sharp, too knowledgeable, too wicked.

Natalia’s sister was once again impressed by how much Lucrezia Raith and her younger sister resembled one another – more like mother and daughter than aunt and niece. _Another rumor, another reason for them to stare and try to scandalize us_. She bowed her head forward respectfully, dismissing dark contemplation for later, as Natalia replied, “Nothing of importance, my lady.”

“What makes the soul laugh is of great importance.” Lucrezia’s eyes shone in the light of dozens of candles. “You would agree with me, wouldn’t you?” Natalia nodded slowly although her sister supposed that it had less to do with agreement and more to do with not wanting to ignite her aunt’s infamous glacial rage. Seemingly pleased, Lucrezia turned towards her then, and her smile became a shade icier. “Your father requests your presence, my dear.”

Ah. That would explain the coldness. She knew her aunt only tolerated her because of her father; most of her affection fell upon Natalia or even Madeline (and who knew where the thirteen-year-old and her brother had darted off to _this_ night), and it bothered her not a whit. There was a part of her that was often delighted when that smoky haughtiness was brought crashing to a halt in the presence of their lord, the fierce pleasure of any seventeen-year-old girl proud of her father. It didn’t matter that her aunt rarely spoke to her if circumstances permitted – she didn’t much care for her either.

She quickly turned on her heel. She could almost feel her aunt’s eyes narrow on her retreating back, and couldn’t help the small smile that slipped onto her face.

She just managed to dodge the king and Mary Tudor, her skin prickling as she felt the king’s eyes on her ( _wretched beast_ , she thought), and found her father and uncle standing just beside one of the castle towers that had been used as part of the pageant. The floor was sticky with rosewater and trodden oranges, but she managed to bypass the worst of it before dropping into a sweeping, elegant curtsy, her head bowed low. The same narrow berth that had existed during the dance and remained, and she didn’t have to worry about some drunk lord or duke tripping over the train of her dress.

“Father,” she murmured. “Uncle.”

A hand was lowered and offered just in front of her and with a smile, she accepted her father’s hand and rose to her feet. “My lady said you requested me.”

Her father nodded at his brother, who took that as a clear dismissal and left without a further word. She watched him go out of the corner of her eye before turning back to her father, a quizzical look on her face. Marsilio Raith was her father’s right hand and shadow – she couldn’t remember one time that she had ever seen one without the other, especially in conversations with her, her sister, or her cousins.

“The king paid you special attention tonight,” her father said, sidestepping formalities. His smooth and solid words left no room for doubt, as they always did. She knew that even a lie from his lips sounded richer than the truth. His face was unreadable as always, aloof and proud. She had long ago learned how to mimic his expressions, and she did so now. They began to walk towards one of the exits, the servants and members of the court dodging them in the same unseen circle that her father’s presence created.

The air was cooler and darker in the hall and much less cloying. Torches lit the way, interspersed with great windows that revealed the star-dusted black night - golden firelight and silver moonlight twirled gently on the stone floors, dark shadows even deeper in the illusion. Their footsteps were quiet and soon the clamour of the hall dimmed to a muffled roar as they stopped a few dozen yards away from the nearest entrance.

“His Majesty will take no interest in me, Papa,” she replied after several moments, glancing over at her father as she switched to the warmer title. “If he tires of the Boleyn girl, he will sooner bed my lady or Natalia.” She allowed herself a small smile. “I dare say that Queen Katharine will not approve of our family any more than she already does if that happens.”

Her father was silent for a moment. “Natalia does not have your cleverness.”

“But she is more beautiful than I,” she remarked plaintively. “Cleverness is not...an _ideal_ prospect in his liaisons.”

“A falcon does not have the same grace and elegance as a swan, but which is admired more for its agility, speed, and prowess?” He never looked at her as spoke; instead, he absently adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, the sapphires that sat embedded in his rings catching light and burning with an inner fire. “Kings can be controlled like anyone else. A crown does not protect them from the follies of mankind or the expedient desires of the heart or tradition.”

She frowned. “Tradition...you mean an heir.” She wasn’t sure if she entirely followed her father’s line of thought - did he want one of his daughters or his sister to give the king an heir? But even so, Bessie Blount was a prime example of what could go _wrong_ with such a proposal. True, the king had a son but without the lady being a queen, he was nothing more than a bastard. And he wouldn’t dare suggest any of them try to usurp Katharine’s place - despite not knowing the reasons behind it, she realized that their sudden departure from Italy meant they _needed_ to stay incognito. “Papa, I don’t understand. Is it important? That he does, I mean?”

She watched her father’s silver-blue eyes narrow as lazily as any tiger’s, and she could almost sense the careful constructs of a plan forming behind the cool gaze.

She was her father’s daughter in many ways, more so in that the first and only memory she had of her mother was a ghostly image of golden hair, sad eyes, and an emerald ring that caught all sunlight. In any other child, it would have produced a longing for something she never had, the desire to feel a mother’s arms around her, a constant presence at her side growing up. But the lack of a mother-figure (Lucrezia could _hardly_ be taken into account) was more than forgivable if it meant the approval of her illustrious father.

Growing up in the golden shadows of Florence, she had learned her way around the political intrigue that the Medicis had left behind before their return from exile when she was six and around the remaining shadows of the Renaissance that had boomed through the city years earlier. Florence was still impossibly cultured, steeped in religion and education, and she had learned how to dispute and talk in roundabout speech with the best of them. Where Lucrezia and Marsilio failed to assert their desire to outwit nobles and lords, she was always there, listening and watching her father, a skillful master of words that would have made poets weep with envy.

England, she had long since decided, was a poor, cold shadow in comparison to Italy’s gilded cities. The people in the royal court were more interested in backstabbing one another, viciously climbing over one another for rank. It wasn’t that that hadn’t been the case in Florence, but there was something about the backwards, isolated culture of the English court that raked at her nerves. To her, it meant little to be accomplished. Practicing argumentative or persuasive skills was a dull exercise when the ladies that were her most frequent companions in court were quite happy with demurely whispering behind their needlework about the latest scandal that had rattled the court. Rumors and scandal were only interesting if they were useful to her.

Despite all of that, she still had not gained the mastery her father had over devising plans so elaborate, they would put all of the European courts to shame. As she watched that calculating light appear in his eyes, she couldn’t help but be curious what sort of entrapment now awaited King Henry’s court.

After a long moment, her father turned that silver gaze onto her and she could have sworn that his eyes were a few shades lighter than they had been only moments before, as pure and incandescent as starlight. Her breath caught in her throat for some indiscernible reason, and she felt a flush spread up her neck.

“I have different plans for you, my dearest.” He smiled, and she felt her heart grow warmer from the acknowledgement. “You are too much like me. I will not have you fall victim to the English king’s transient fancies.” He lifted his hand to gently touch an idly curling strand of hair that had escaped her headdress. She felt something strange and foreign twist in her stomach, dark and scarlet flame – her eyes closed for a moment, lips parting against a murmur.

“Papa...”

He chuckled humorlessly.

“Go dance with the others, daughter mine. Tempt the king’s weaknesses, but do not become reckless. He is too easily swayed by Wolsey and his counselors and his own pride.She looked up at him in confusion.

“But Papa, how-”

His eyes flashed in irritation and she fell silent, coldness uncurling in the pit of her stomach. He watched her for a long, steady moment before striding back to the festivities and leaving her in the hallway alone, and she felt the dismissal as clear as she had seen it earlier with Marsilio. She realized that she was both elated and angry – the prospect of being part of one of her father’s plans excited her, but the wintry dismissal did not.

Disappointment settled over her and by the time she arrived back to the great chamber, her father was nowhere to be seen. Marsilio and Lucrezia were also gone, and Natalia was dancing on the arm of some roguish-looking lord with the word LOYALTY emblazoned on his sash, her smile and laughter dazzling and, as she watched, attracting the attention of one Henry Tudor. She narrowed her eyes darkly - how quickly the man went from admiration of one lady to another. She knew him not to be fool even if his infamous temper suggested otherwise, but his eyes roamed far too quickly for her liking.

When it was the idea that the king had been watching her, she was fine - even simply discussing the possibility that he would choose her sister over her did not burn her heart with a strong sense of sisterly possession. Natalia was _hers_ , someone she could claim more readily than any other family member. For the king to watch her as if she were his next conquest...she pursed her lips. No, she would not allow it. She could handle _herself_ , but Natalia...Natalia was still so _young_.

That did not mean she wanted to throw herself in the path of those looks either, seduce him away with her words and body. She had spoken true to her sister - their involvement with the king, should it burn to ash like his other affairs, would ruin them and only humiliate their father. _That_ she could not have either.

_Tempt the king’s weaknesses...?_

She began to make her way around the perimeter of the room in a silken prowl, nodding and bowing absently to those she passed, murmuring gentle acknowledgements “my lord” or “m’lady”. Papa had given her instructions - he had made sure that only she knew of them, and she was sure that he realized that she would do anything to protect her sister from disgrace. She almost considered perhaps that she had been manipulated for some reason - after all, she didn’t know _why_ her father wanted to begin playing chess of the king’s court.

She shook her head, clearing those thoughts away. No. Papa wouldn’t do that to her. It was a test - he said so himself. She was _his_ daughter, and he was seeing if she could prove herself - distract the king, keep him off balance.

She thought she would have done it anyway, if Natalia was involved. She took a breath and was about to move towards the center of the room when long, slender fingers gently touched her wrist. “Lady Mercy, I beg your pardon.”

She turned, lips turned downwards in a disapproving frown. The young woman who couldn’t have been more than five years older than her was dressed in an identical white dress although the sash around her breast proclaimed PERSEVERANCE instead of MERCY in golden stitching. She was nearly of the same coloring, although darker in both eye and skin, and those eyes - black as night - were clearly her most astounding feature. She met them fairly and raised a brow in a silent question.

“I wished to speak with you.” The young woman’s voice was subtly and teasingly tinged with traces of a French accent. She looked over in the direction of Natalia and the king and the still smiling lord, and gently took her elbow, turning her away slightly. “She is your younger sister, is she not?”

“It is not much of a secret here at court.”

“I haven’t had the pleasure of being introduced.” Perseverance bowed her head forward conspiratorially. “You look at His Majesty the same way I do, with much displeasure. Is it because he looks at your sister with such longing?”

“He looks at many ladies the same way, Lady Perseverance.” _Many ladies_ , she thought with an inward bristle, _are not Natalia though. And they are not the daughters to my lord father._

“I haven’t been at court long but he seems the sort whose interest would wane after a time.” Her brow knitted in thought. “It is similar to the French court, and my sister has already found herself taunted for her promiscuity. From one sister to another, I only wanted to warn you.”

She was unsure whether to be annoyed or amused by the admonition. “A warning is only necessary if I wasn’t aware of the consequences.”

“Oh? Then you are far more wary and less…” Perseverance’s eyes danced along with her smile, “… _merciful_ than I.”

She peered back at the woman with her charming accent and black eyes and impish smile - there was something dangerous about this one, illicit in a way that could entice any man. The white satin that brushed against her slim form only seemed to kindle the devilish fire in those eyes, the aura of charm that attracted the attention of more than one courtier in the room.

She smiled and allowed dark-haired Perseverance to lead her away. She had made a mistake, letting her ire be known to someone who was _looking_ for it. Clever girl. Very, very clever. It would never happen again. A plan became to quietly crystallize in her mind. Papa’s word was law, but it could be...misinterpreted. “Lady Perseverance, I’m afraid I may have to call upon your virtue tonight if you do not tell me your name.”

Black eyes simmered and a low, amused laugh bubbled from her throat.

“Anne, my Lady Mercy. Anne Boleyn.”

:::

It was a perfect plan - beautifully intricate and subtle, a masterpiece if there ever was one. Perhaps the perfection was fueled by my desire to keep my sister away from the king’s wandering eyes or, even stronger, my own reluctance to sacrifice myself for her well-being and honor. But if there had been any doubt whether or not I was the daughter of Lord Raith, I extinguished it with words and actions that would be forgotten by the scholars and the courtiers, the cardinals and the kings - after all, who would dare attribute the king’s great matter to one silent lady in the court?

Anne was a suitable replacement. She was intelligent, whimsical, and viciously independent, and she never suspected what had really happened, not even at the very end when the executioner’s sword sliced through that lovely, tiny neck of her. I never could have predicted that, and when the charges were brought forth against her years later, I...

It is of no matter. I led her to the slaughter.

Then there was Jane. Anne of Cleves. The vapid Katherine and the last, another Catherine, learned and savvy enough to outlive the laughable caricature that the king had become. Papa was pleased with the results even if they had escalated beyond anything I could have imagined, but he did not approve of the methods - I had not _listened_ to him in the way he wanted, and before Anne was even made queen, he had made sure that, in caresses and unwanted pleasure, I would never do such a thing again.

I had not saved Natalia, not in the way I had hoped. I had not even saved myself. When the dynasty erupted in the scandal of the divorce, I was already consumed by a different fire.

And Papa knew. Papa will always know. I am my father’s daughter, his most beautiful and deadly weapon.

His little Lara.


	2. Natalia

**| 2 |**

_In my end is my beginning._

:::

It has been eighty years since the night we left Florence, a city that in my dreams is still built with red spires and cathedrals that touch the cobalt-hued sky and sweet golden countrysides that extend far into the horizon. Perhaps my memory is clouded, building Florence to a perfection that it could never have attained in real life – I have not been back to my childhood home since the Medicis returned from their exile and even now, I doubt I will return to it soon if the land is still under their power.

Papa has not allowed it.

It does not _truly_ matter, I think. To the world, we should be a long time frail, broken and as fragile as dust if not forgotten. To the world, that’s what we _must_ be. Even if there are few remaining in my childhood home who would remember us, it is best, as Uncle says, to err on the side of caution. I cannot help but think that our ousting had _something_ to do with Uncle, but he never speaks of it.

Perhaps it is for the better – Papa is not to be disobeyed.

But eternity is a long time to be ghost. How long until it is _safe_? I know in my heart of hearts that our world is never _safe_ \- we are predators amongst predators, dangerous in spite of and because of our appearance – but I think it is still a wayward child’s dream to think of home and long to return there. Florence can never be replaced by the gray of England and France and the Netherlands, but we cannot settle.

One would think that London at least would have found a way into my heart. We were there for so long, memorable yet still fading into the background. It is where I and my sister and my two cousins...where we _changed_ , where we entered into this world of subtle deception and wordplay and ravenous desire. The twins, always overindulged and vivacious, thrived with their newfound power, bright-eyed and excited for a realm of possibilities that only immortality can grant, and only a frigid warning by Papa kept a sudden exponential increase of bodies littering the English countryside. Uncle does not dare reprimand them and my aunt dotes on them almost as much as she does me.

When the storm of our lives becomes too weary and too bitterly unknowable, I find my sister and tell her my worries. But she is not the same as she was – she is learning far more quickly than any of us. She was already so clever at fighting with her words, it seems only natural that she falls so completely into this new world. I worry about her, worry that the smiling, feisty sister from my childhood will one day be too far gone to remember what came before.

I play the game too, but with less enthusiasm than my cousins and less expertise than my sister. This is a world they were born to dominate, and the irony never fails to strike me cold – of us all, I received the beauty that was the most alluring. Papa saw this too and waited and calculated...

Papa had changed too.

I would have liked to remain unaware of this world, to have married and settled down into the anonymity of old age like anyone else. But that dream is like Florence – lost to my childhood, in swirls of red-gold and laughter and innocence.

And bliss. I would have had bliss.

:::

_Casa de Pilatos_   
_Seville_ _, Spain_

The cool air of autumn twilight seeped through the open windows into the bedchamber, violet-hued light rushing away from the last visages of sunlight. The draperies rustled quietly in the wind that carried the sounds and smells of a Spanish evening, the breeze lighting gently upon a pair of Indian chimes hanging over one of the bedposts.

It was still too early to light many of the candles in the room, but the few flames that did waltz on the wax cast intriguing shadows on the bare back of a young woman, her tousled dark hair falling over one shoulder and obscuring her vision of the bells. A young man – the nephew of a visiting English duke or lord or something of that sort, she couldn’t truly remember – writhed and bucked in sweat-slicked lust beneath her, his hands gripping her waist in a futile attempt to control the painstakingly slow rhythm. She had made sure that they had been loud enough in the beginning to scare off the servants with their delicate sensibilities. That was hours ago. She knew that he probably didn’t remember how he got here – at this point, despite her cries earlier, he probably didn’t even remember his own name.

 _You poor, stupid boy._ She saw frustration grow dark in his eyes, although she knew it would never overpower the desire coursing through him. She leaned forward, her long hair brushing against his cheek and she gently, almost lovingly, brushed her fingers against his lips before replacing that gentle touch with a firm, heated kiss. _Don’t. You’ll be dead soon enough._

She tasted the gasped moan that slipped from him and felt him when he shuddered as another wave of pleasure ripped through him, although less fervent than it had been several minutes and several hours before. The demonic thirst that had for decades now run through her veins burned hot as life, rich and heady and pure, delved into her blood. Beneath her touch, she could feel his heart skip several beats, sluggishly laboring against the inevitable, but the Hunger inside of her only crowed with triumph as it greedily fed upon the energy leaving her partner.

Moments later, as her own body trembled with release, she saw him draw in a shaky breath, exhale...and then he went utterly still, his eyes half-closing and staring blindly at some distant point over her shoulder. She sighed as the Hunger settled back in sated pleasure, reaching for her embroidered robe and the pair of men’s breeches tucked inside that had somehow not fallen to the floor in the midst of their more...exuberant activities. Sliding the breeches over long, muscular legs, she didn’t bother to spare the cooling body a glance.

A moment later, there was a whisper of movement on the other side of the door.

When the door swung open, her ax, previously concealed beneath nearly a dozen pillows, was already gripped in her hand, ready to be sent flying into the intruder’s skull. A very familiar face blinked at her in surprise until her lovely dark pink lips split into an amused smile.

“Oh my dear Natalia – what were you planning to do with that?” Lucrezia murmured as she raised an eyebrow, gray-blue eyes bright with amusement. “Decapitate your poor aunt who has only ever looked out for you?” She pouted. “I must say, I am disappointed.”

Natalia lowered the ax with a sigh. “No, _Zia_. I thought you were one of the guards.”

“And you decided the best way to keep a low profile was to lop one of their heads off, is that it?”

Natalia didn’t answer her. Instead, she slowly belted her robe, slipping the haft of the ax through it so that it hung by its head. It was not an elegant weapon – most of her family preferred swords or sabers (Madeline herself loved having a series of knives hidden within the folds of her dresses although Lara had scathingly noted that she was too quick to get out of a dress for the knives to do much good). Elegance was supposed to be their fighting style, but for some reason, Natalia had rejected it in favor of the heavier, more masculine weapon.

As long as it did its job, she could not have cared less.

Lucrezia looked at the corpse on the bed and licked her lips. “You’ve done well. Everyone is talking about the beautiful woman who accompanied the duke's son to his chambers.”

Natalia nodded mutely, fingers automatically moving to begin twisting her long hair into a conventional braid. She didn’t like this, but Papa had wanted it and whatever Papa wanted...Natalia shivered in memory. She had stopped asking why years ago. Eternity was a long time to fight against her nature, and Papa and Lara and her aunt and uncle had already made it perfectly clear that there was no going back to before.

“Are you prepared to leave?”

As soon as she was done with her hair, Natalia reached for a black cloak that the young man had worn earlier, now laying discarded on a chair. Despite her height, it nearly swallowed her whole and she frowned in discomfort as she adjusted it. “Yes. Is he here?”

Lucrezia nodded as Natalia pulled the hood of the cloak over her head, obscuring her features in shadows as Seville plunged into the darkness of night. “In the courtyard. He’s very impatient. I would have had the poor buck screaming at least an hour ago to quell his temperament.” She looked over at the corpse again, her eyes made of molten silver in the candlelight. Natalia had no doubt that Lucrezia probably had wanted to join in but at least she had the decency to restrain herself, something that would have been a problem if Madeline had tagged along like she insisted.

Despite the earliness of the evening, the corridors were nearly devoid of courtiers and servants alike. When Natalia asked about it, Lucrezia shrugged.

“I think it has something to do with the Warden.”

Natalia frowned, adjusting her hood. “The Warden is still here?”

Lucrezia smiled – or at least she bared her teeth. “I don’t believe he ever left, my dear.”

They emerged from the darkened corridor into one of the balconies overlooking the largest of the two gardens. Sitting at the base of stairs just a dozen yards away, a figure also wearing a hooded cloak was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, holding the reins of two white stallions. One of the horse was nudging the figure’s shoulder impatiently, and Natalia couldn’t help but smile as they descended the stairs. She crossed over to the figure, leaning up to kiss his cheek.

“Cousin. It’s good to see you.” She looked askance at the stallions with a smile. “The horses are a little ostentatious though, don’t you think?”

Madrigal Raith scowled at her, although it was much less severe than the expression he usually wore. “You should have been here an hour ago. The impetuous freak has started putting up wards throughout Seville, thinking to trap us.” He gave Lucrezia a sour look. “We should have just brought him with us - he seemed willingly enough to follow you yesterday.”

Lucrezia clucked her tongue. “Madrigal, _darling_ , you must realize that we do not work on the timetable of our own whims.” She narrowed her eyes. “You continue to speak the way you do, and you’ll find yourself castrated and sitting in disgrace with House Malvora.”

Natalia gave Madrigal a sympathetic look at his wince and murmured apology. She often thought he was too ambitious and short-sighted for his own good, a quality shared with his even more brash sister. It wasn’t as if the leading family of House Raith didn’t have enough problems within the past few decades - her younger brother Tristan, born in the same year Francis Drake began his circumnavigation of the world, had been murdered during a confusion of rebellion. House Malvora tried to make a play for the crown of the White Court only a few weeks later, but the plan dissipated when Papa had efficiently unraveled their tactics, disgracing their cousins and solidifying the Raith power.

Natalia still wished Papa would have shown more distress over the loss of his only son - the workings of Malvora had seemed to interest him far more than tracking down Tristan’s murderers. She missed him - he had been a scholar at heart, dreamy and poetic, always at the receiving end of Madeline’s vicious ridiculing, Madrigal’s bullying, and Lara’s quiet disdain.

 _At least_ , Natalia thought as Madrigal adjusted the saddle, _he never had to become one of us._

“Have you found out his name?”

Madrigal shrugged. “Machado. He’s a new Warden. Young. Stupid. Arrogant too.” He didn’t see Lucrezia’s small smile at those words as he climbed into the saddle with effortless grace. “We could take him, _Zia_. Deal a blow to the White Council to let them know not to meddle in the affairs of the White Court.”

Natalia shook her head, accepting her cousin’s hand to pull her up so that she was seated behind him. “It’s not how things are done, cousin. Not with us. It would not be very elegant.” Beside her, Lucrezia lifted herself into the saddle with more grace than either her niece or nephew could have managed despite the voluminous skirts she was wearing. Madrigal snorted, grabbing the reins with one fist. He muttered something unintelligible beneath his breath before nudging the horse into a canter through the darkened gardens, heading towards the far gate.

The trip back to England promised to be dire. Vanishing acts were only tolerable if it didn’t feel as if she had to look over her shoulder in hopes that no one would recognize her now eternally youthful face. It had been a long year in Spain and Natalia longed to see her sister again, but the thought of crossing Papa made her stomach churn uncomfortably.

“Madrigal, is Madeline still in France?” she whispered into her cousin’s ear.

“A revolution would not be able to pry her from her French suitors,” came the wry reply.

“Don’t tempt her,” Lucrezia commented breezily.

“She’d probably start one to keep from being bored.” Natalia sighed. “Papa won’t like it.”

Madrigal was silent for a moment, but she felt his muscles stiffen with tension beneath her hold. They were all still very young compared to Papa and his siblings, but they knew better than to risk the king of the White Court’s ire. Madrigal at least didn’t find himself privy to the intimacies that now seemed to be a given for his daughters. Briefly, she wondered if the same would have befallen Tristan as well if he had not been killed.

They were nearly to the boundaries of the main sprawl of Seville when Lucrezia abruptly halted her horse - the stallion reeled back with a furious whiny, shaking its great head in disturbance. She held up a hand to stop Madrigal who pulled up the reins with a frown. “What is it?”

“A veil.” She narrowed her eyes. “Clever boy.”

Natalia peered from around Madrigal’s shoulder, looking at the street that eventually led out to the Spanish countryside. Now that Lucrezia had mentioned it, she could feel the unsettling faint hum of power brush against her skin and she resisted the urge to turn in her seat to look over her shoulder. The ghastly feeling of being watched and of being in immediate danger set off an unpleasant tingling between her shoulder blades. Absently, her hand moved to the handle of her ax.

“Warden, you may come from hiding now.” Lucrezia hadn’t raised her voice by much, but it still seemed ring in the evening air. “Your veil only works if I could not detect it.”

There was a moment of silence. Then, appearing from literally thin air, a gray-cloaked young man with classically Spanish features appeared barely a few yards away from Natalia and Madrigal’s mount. A sword was strapped to his side and he was seated on a black horse. Natalia was impressed despite of herself - she knew little about the workings of magic, but knew that keeping the veil around both himself and the horse to hide from both sight, sound, and smell was notable.

Her hand never left her weapon.

“Warden Machado, I presume?” Lucrezia’s smile was charming, and Natalia could sense the subtle allure that wove through her words like a silver thread. “That was a beautiful veil. I have not met any Warden who could create one so complex.”

“Save your compliments, vampire.” Despite his appearance, the wizard’s accent was tinged with more of an English accent than a Spanish one. “Where do you ride to this night?”

“I fail to see how that is any concern of yours, Warden.”

The wizard scowled. “There have been a string of supernatural murders in this city though no one dares to blame them on what they don’t understand. It is not magic that is harming them - it is you.”

“You have no proof,” Madrigal spat and Natalia squeezed his arm with her free hand in warning.

The warden’s eyes gleamed. “And you, vampire, are too quick to dismiss the accusation. One would think you have something to hide.”

Lucrezia laughed, tilting her head back in delight. It was calculated, Natalia knew - she watched as brief desire flashed through the warden’s eyes and as his breathing quickened very so slightly, Madrigal’s comment momentarily forgotten. “Does the White Council presume to be defenders of humanity now? Do you intend to stop the nature of the beast in order to save the poor kine from their inevitable fates?” Amusement caused her eyes to take on bluish hues. “Warden Machado, my nephew is correct - even if we _had_ been involved, you truly have no proof.”

It took a moment for him to recover, but eventually Warden Machado found his voice. “The nephew of the visiting English duke - I know _she_ ,” his gaze swung malevolently over to Natalia, “was with him all day. There was talk of a beautiful woman stealing him away.”

“There are many beautiful Spanish maidens in Seville. And visiting a friend is hardly a crime, wizard mine.”

“Until the friend ends up dead.” The young wizard’s voice was cold, angry.

Natalia understood. “He was a friend of yours, wasn’t he?” She didn’t quite meet the warden’s eyes - she had heard about wizard’s soulgazes. “You have been watching us for a long time, but only now have decided to interfere. If you believed that we were at the source of these deaths earlier, you would have confronted us sooner. But you only act now because there is only one that you know of - that young man.” Her fingers tapped the ax almost impatiently and she nodded at the cloak and the sword. “You act in the name of the Council, and you want to accuse the White Court of what exactly? It _is_ a bit impetuous.”

The warden flushed angrily and he shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. Madrigal had been right - young, stupid, arrogant. His emotions were written vibrantly across his face. “I know more than that.”

“Oh?” Madrigal’s voice was smug. “Here to impress us with your bit of knowledge, are you?”

“I know what has been happening in the Netherlands.”

“Yes, well...they _are_ a bit strange there, aren’t they?” Lucrezia began nudging her stallion back down the quiet street, a faint smile still on her lips. “Warden, if you seek to start a war between the White Court and the White Council, I _do_ hope that you have more than mere rumors to go upon. Natalia, Madrigal - we must go. This is truly nonsense.”

“I know your family’s secret, vampire. I know about your daughter.”

Natalia and Madrigal shared confused looks. Lucrezia didn’t have a daughter. She was the only one of the Raith siblings who didn’t have children of her own and often commented on how much happier she was because of it.

 _But_ , Natalia paused as she saw Lucrezia swing the stallion around to give the warden a cool stare, _how long have Papa and Lucrezia and Marsilio lived? It’s not too much to assume that there may have been other siblings, other cousins?_

Lucrezia was quiet for a long stretch of time. Madrigal turned an icy glare to the wizard and looked as if he were about to say something, but Natalia gave him another warning squeeze and his comment died on his lips. She was watching her aunt curiously, carefully - she hadn’t laughed off the accusation.

_Zia?_

“Families,” the older vampire finally murmured, “have many secrets.” Silver light seemed to gleam off her already pale skin, a sudden pull of desire so thick in the air that Natalia could almost taste it. She was immune to its effects, as was Madrigal, since it was not directed to either of them. Her eyes became several shades of paler, to the point that it almost looked as if they had lost their color entirely. The effect on the warden was immediate - he clearly hadn’t been expecting this. Perhaps he expected fame, glory, to have the vampires confess all of their crimes while he came hero of the White Council. He was young enough to believe himself immortal, too confident in his abilities. She saw a flush rise up his neck, watched as he suddenly and obviously became aroused to the point that she was sure sitting on the horse was torture.

 _Foolish boy._ Natalia turned her head away. “Lucrezia, what did he _mean_? What secret?”

Her aunt ignored her. “No one knows you’re here, do they? You believe you’re on some sort of secret mission to right the wrongs of the world.” She didn’t so much as slip from the horse’s saddle than melt off it. “You silly buck. But handsome...very handsome.” She reached him, but he didn’t move. The horse whinnied nervously.

 “Lucrezia...” Natalia began again as her aunt slipped a hand along the warden’s thigh and she watched him shudder in sudden ecstasy.

 “Natalia, Madrigal.” Her voice sounded far away, but still very firm. “Leave him to me. I will meet you León.”

 “But Lucrezia...!”

Lucrezia turned her gaze towards her niece and her expression was twisted with bitterness, anger, and a very faint glow of longing. Then, the expression faded into something more opaque and she gave Madrigal a short nod. His face twisted in an expression of annoyance and confusion before he grabbed the reins of her horse and pressing it into Natalia’s hands. She moved from his stallion to Lucrezia’s, confusion written clearly on her face.

  _She’s killing him because of what he said. What secret about us is worth killing for?_

And before Natalia could press her for more answers, Madrigal had snapped the reins on her stallion and then kicked the side of his, sending them both into a furious gallop, leaving their aunt and the warden behind in the cold, silvery aura of the power washing over the area. Even over the stampede of hooves on dirt streets, Natalia could hear the warden’s low, desperate groan. She clenched her teeth in frustration, the reins biting into her hands as they sped past the city’s boundaries.

_I will find out, Lucrezia. You will tell me._

:::

She would never say anything about the encounter.

Lucrezia did indeed meet us in León but she waved away all of my inquiries with a laugh, saying that the warden was nothing but a liar trying to prove his own worth. I knew that we dare not mention again - despite the laughter, there was icy rage behind that warning and I am still unsure if it was directed at me. Madrigal for his part soon forgot about the whole deal once we returned to the court of an aging Elizabeth.

We never told Papa.

Eventually, I confided in Lara and while she listened, there was a calculating look in her eyes as I confessed that I was afraid what a family secret could mean if it was brought to the attention of the other Houses. She told me not to worry over such trivial things, her words eerily similar to those of Lucrezia, even more so when they have never agreed upon anything in the years I have known them. But she still listens to my fears and in those rare moments when her own walls come down, I listen to hers.

But things are not the same. No, they will never be the same. We are predators. Monsters. There is nothing more and nothing less than what we are, what we will be. There is little use regretting the past - it was built and glorified in the dream of someone I used to be. It was meant to be lost.

Still, there is a secret that is kept hidden from us, tied directly to my blood. Lucrezia has since vanished to France with Madeline and I dare not ask Papa. My sister is remote and while I hate to think her untrustworthy, perhaps it is time that I realize that loneliness is as much as trait of the White Court as lust is. I have promised to myself that I will find out what it is, what it means for all of us.

Eternity, after all, is a long time to live in darkness.


	3. Matthias

**| 3 |**

_Never make a defense or apology before you be accused._

:::

Families have a peculiar and bothersome tendency to keep and create secrets that will be your undoing.

For the past five and twenty years, I have lived without concern of the world in the presence of the flourishing Dutch high society. When one looks at it in _that_ particular scope, I think that maybe our lifestyle prior to the dangers of the supernatural was supposed to act as insulation, give us a taste of everything that human life had to offer before we found ourselves graced (or cursed) with immortality. I indulged in every known vice of youth that was available to me and, living in one of the most acclaimed countries in world, there were plenty.

It was during one of those excursions six years ago that I found myself in the company of a young French girl – Sophie, I believe her name was. I don’t remember where she came from and the strongest memory I have of her are her dark eyes and her infectious laughter – these have haunted my nightmares since. It was only a day and a good part of the night that I knew her, but she is still important despite my memory – she was the one who provoked the change.

When I arrived back in the Netherlands, I had to admit to my uncle (I have not seen my father since a little before I was that age and never knew my mother) that during my excursions abroad, I had through some accident killed a young woman. He only took one look at me to know _exactly_ what had happened, and since that time, I have despised every secret the family has ever been sworn not to reveal. How can free will be achieved when roads are shadowed by untruths?

My two eldest sisters may have pitied me, although it was and still is often difficult to say with Lara. My uncle knows how much I hate the secrets, how much I would be willing to rip them all apart if I knew them all. It is probably why I have not seen my father since I developed this Hunger, have rarely seen my older sisters (Natalia is more willingly to give away a secret than Lara who hordes them like a miser), and have been forbidden to contact my younger sister Ursula. Every single attempt I've made to speak with her failed – every letter lost, every courier killed, every planned trip cancelled due to circumstances so unfortunate they could only have been planned.

I aired my grievances to my uncle, the only family member that I was always in contact with, but he did nothing to help. I believe he feared – still fears – my father from some incident long before I was born. I despised his cowardice and worried abut Ursula – why wouldn’t she be able to have a choice, to have the chance to follow a life unburdened by the thought of a fiery afterlife? Because despite our angelic appearances, I know we are nothing more than demons, preying upon the soul, doomed to the hellfire that the angels were cast down into.

Lara will not listen. I do not dare bring compassionate Natalia into this. Lucrezia and Marsilio are useless. And no one can risk the wrath of the King of the White Court. Ursula should be lost to me, vanished into the midst of Austria or France or Portugal – I would not even put it past my father to ship her off to the Americas to keep her from me.

But I can’t accept that.

I will find her, and I pray it is not too late.

:::

_The Docks_   
_Amsterdam_ _, Netherlands_

Rain poured down in thick heavy sheets of gray and silver, sometimes shot through with eye-searingly brilliant lightning as it split the sky open with thunderous booms. The rain had turned most of the streets into sludge, the mud thick enough to stop any carriages or horses or even people that would have been foolhardy enough to walk around in the middle of the storm. The streets themselves were suddenly turning into poor imitations of the city’s famous _Grachtengorde_ , and no one in their right mind would have bothered traipsing across the city in the downpour anyway.

Buildings loomed over the streets like silent black sentinels, candlelight flickering in the gaping windows - the only defense against the sudden darkness. The storm had come suddenly and most people had taken refuge inside to wait out the winds and the rain - occasionally a face would press to the glass, stare out into the darkness, and shiver at the absoluteness of it all until a roar of thunder sent them scurrying further back inside with the promise of light.

There was one person, however, who seemed to disregard the storm as if it were no more than an annoying insect.

If a bystander had actually been out in the wind and rain, they would have seen a shadow moving against the shadows, a hooded figure that was moving with more speed and grace than should have been possible for any human - and _that_ would have been without the slippery streets and the near darkness of the storm. The person seemed to know exactly where to place his or her feet to avoid slipping and falling painfully in the rain-soaked road. If that same bystander continued to stare, they would have seen a glimpse of a very pale face in the shadows of the cloak’s hood, their gray eyes dark in frustration.

But no one was there to watch the lone figure race towards the docks, his footsteps silent against the roar of rain and thunder.

He abruptly came to a stop, staring up at a ship that sat anchored to the docks, its sails lowered and its decks empty of crew. A quick glance around showed that every other ship was as abandoned as this one, the sailors having gone ashore the moment the storm hit to seek refuge, ale, and good company in the taverns nearby. One or two spaces along the dock were empty – the captains of _those_ ships must’ve decided to leave just prior to the storm hitting.

“ _Godverdomme_ ,” Matthias Raith spat, looking up at the looming masts and wooden hull of the ship, the ship itself foreboding in the flashes of the lightning. “Damn it _all_.” His hands clenched into fists at his side – he was too late.

He looked back over towards where the taverns were, his eyes lightening a shade or two towards silver. This was bloody bad luck. The storm was the final piece of a disastrous fortnight that had rendered him financially and physically frustrated. Ever since that night when his uncle had left with promises to return to Amsterdam was quickly as travel would allow, he had received nothing but trouble and bad news. If it had been anyone else rather than his uncle, he would have surmised that this had all been planned out.

The storm had been unpredictable but it had thrown his plans into disarray. What with the slowly crumbling state of his finances and social status, he had planned to leave behind Amsterdam, gather up his sister, and depart towards the West Indies, to start a new life as far away from their father as possible. It was a fool’s gamble, but his sources in the Nevernever, though few and far between, had promised him that Ursula would be in northern France for a short amount of time. With the storm, there was no possible way he was going to make it there before she vanished once again.

He let out a hiss of frustration, pounding his fist into a nearby piling and with a sharp crack, reduced it to splinters. Technically, he had all the time in the world to be patient, but Ursula didn’t. Hell, at this rate, by the time he _did_ find her, she may have already turned.

Overhead, the sky rumbled ominously again, lightning dancing behind thick, black stormclouds.

There was nothing left to do, not with the storm still raging as violently as it was. No ship captain in their right mind would try to leave the port in this weather. He would have to wait it out, hope that it would pass quickly, and then take his chances in northern France. If he had any remaining luck left, Ursula would still be there.

He headed over to the nearest tavern, the bawdy and drunken ruckus inside reaching him when he was still several dozen yards away. He could see the shadows of something similar to a pantomime, cast by candlelight against the thick glass windows. The taverns would make good money tonight, along with the does that sold their wares to the hungry sailors. The energy that permeated from the taverns and whorehouses ghosted against his inner demon, rousing it from its growling slumber. He felt it come alive, lifting its head and sniffing the air as it were.

 _This is where we need to be_ , his demon purred quietly against his senses. _This is where there is flesh and decadence, where any number of does would willing bend to your will._

Matthias growled in annoyance, shoving the Hunger to the side and slipping into the crowded tavern. His arrival was marked by candles flickering in the sudden torrent of rain and wind and he hurriedly shut the door behind him. He lowered his hood, casting a severe look of disapproval on the commotion inside. Several people looked up from their conversations but once they saw it wasn’t their captain or an officer of the law, they quickly returned to their drinks or to the tart sitting dolled up on their lap (not that the women – and some of the men – were so quick to turn away).

The crowd unconsciously parted for him as he made his way to a table in the far corner of the room. Every time he accidentally brushed the kine, the Hunger was eager to offer information about their tastes to him in a cacophony of noise and emotion: a doe too eager to please, to escape from the despair of poverty at home; a merchant with a penchant for those of the same gender, his lusts only sated in places where people will not recognize him; a buck drunk on life and invincibility and wealth and only too willing to take a chance on a wary doe.

“ _Goedenmorgan_ , lad,” the bartender grumbled as he arrived at the table, his cheeks red from the heat in the room and from exertion – he probably hadn’t expected the storm or the influx of customers. “What can I do you for?”

“Don’t you have wenches for this, Jan?” Matthias noted darkly.

“Aye, but they’re all off entertaining the sailors,” same the gruff reply. “I suspect some of ‘em will be entertaining them late into the night.” He scoffed. “These girls nowadays – quick with the tongue and even quicker to get out of them dresses.”

Matthias snorted and the bartender slapped a heavy wooden cup of some mysterious ale down on the tabletop, sending the liquid sloshing over the edges. “You’ll be here long?” Jan knew enough about Matthias to realize that unusual happenings followed him wherever he went and although he’d never say it allowed, knew that there was something not quite human about the gray-eyed patron.

“Not long. Just looking for the right sort of captain.”

Jan peered at Matthias from underneath a pair of bushy black eyebrows that threatened to crawl off his face. Understanding flickered across his face a moment later. “It’ll take some courageous bastard for that.”

“Foolhardy even.” Matthias raised the cup to his lips, giving Jan a pointed look.

Jan grunted a reply. “I’ll ask around. There may be someone.” He paused. “He’ll want to know a reason though.”

Matthias was silent for a moment or two, swallowing dark brown liquid that burned fiercely on its way down his throat. Then he set the mug back down on the table and murmured, “It’s my sister.”

 Jan nodded. “ _Natuurlijk_. I’ll see what I can do.” He paused again, long enough for Matthias to look up at him and give him an irritated look. “It may be an hour or two. Persuasion and such. Will you be needing one of the girls? Or...?” He trailed off and Matthias sat back in his chair. The Hunger seemed to pace restlessly behind the cages of his mind, eager to leap onto the effort despite being decently fed.

_Perhaps the girl from before so eager to please – her cries would sound so lovely beneath us..._

Matthias closed his eyes as the Hunger reached out to touch that strand of life across the room, something desperate and lonely and easily broken. When he opened his eyes again, silver danced amongst the blue-gray and he saw that the girl from before, with her flaming red-gold hair and dark eyes, had turned towards him, her breath quickening as he caught her gaze. She seemed to freeze underneath that glacial look, a pink flush rising in her cheeks. A part of him wanted to smile over how easy it was to entrap her, but a flash of concern about his sister quickly killed the amusement.

He broke the stare, looking away, but still felt the girl’s eyes on him, felt her presence linger just on the peripheral edge of his demonic senses. Jan looked from him to the girl and frowned, clearing his throat. “The lass is new. You probably don’t want-”

Matthias waved him off. “She’ll come if she’s interested.”

_Beautiful doe. We can make her scream, forget about her worries and the stresses of simply living...we can help her..._

Jan’s brow furrowed. “Aye.”

When he was gone, Matthias finished the mug of ale with one long pull before settling it back down on the tabletop. Jan would come through - he had in the past, and the man was one of the few honest people he knew. While Matthias didn’t enforce the same stringent rules of honesty on himself, to be counted as a friend of his, a person’s word must be worth more than the riches of the Old and New Worlds combined. With any luck, he would be sailing away from Amsterdam before the next morning, the storm be damned.

He sidled through the loud and sweating crowds, his cloak feeling suddenly very heavy and damp on his shoulders. He felt the redhead girl’s eyes on him, knew the moment she started following him through the crowds. If he reached out, he knew he could feel her heart beating too fast, her breath coming too quickly. A part of him was angry with himself for luring her away from people, but for the most part, he knew it was a necessary evil. He was practical if nothing else - he was going to need to be at peak performance during the trip. He dared not feed on a sailor and end up getting cast overboard.

He rounded a corner, slipping into a shadowed alcove just off from the main hallway. Further down the hallway, he felt lust and drunkenness permeate the walls, heard soft cries of pleasure from behind closed doors and smelled the overwhelming stench of alcohol and vomit from too much indulgence. While Matthias had visited places like this often, he still sniffed in disgust at the odors, heavily mixed with the usual seaside smells. It was enough to make any sober person’s stomach jolt.

The girl arrived a moment later, her eyes still wide in confusion and desire. She looked up at him, licked her lips nervously, and quietly murmured, “I...I saw you. In the tavern.”

Matthias said nothing; instead, he only lifted his hand to gently stroke her cheek, feeling her shiver beneath his touch, her eyes fluttering closed as her heart began racing with lust.

This was a choice. She had followed him willingly.

Ursula was going to have a choice.

He took her in the shadows of the alcove, muffling her cries with his hand at first and then with his mouth, wordlessly quieting her frantic movements. The Hunger gleefully and greedily drank in the life that seeped from her, again and again, furiously driving her over the edge and back as she clung to him. The indiscretion of it all didn’t faze him in the slightest – the shadows hid his face well enough and the gasps coming from them both could have come from any number of faceless patrons of the tavern.

While the demonic part of him drowned in ecstasy, feeding on the life that bled from the girl, a stray thought wandered through his mind like a wisp of smoke. _Did she have a choice? Or did you make it for her?_

It was a familiar argument. He ignored it, burying it like he had done so often before and delving deeper into the redheaded lass.

Much later, he finally emerged from the hallway, absently straightening his clothes. Jan spotted him right away. He shuffled over to the vampire, nodding in the direction of a bearded sailor sitting just a couple of dozen yards away, his table filled to capacity with empty or half-empty mugs of ale.

“That one there. He’ll tell you what you need to know.”

Matthias nodded, dark blue eyes quickly scanning the crowd.

“Should I send for someone?” His meaning was clear. Matthias shrugged.

"I wasn’t that Hungry. You’ll find her well enough.” Jan didn’t let out a sigh of relief – he knew Matthias too well for that – and grunted out something that may have been a farewell. Matthias gave him a brief nod before venturing over to the sailor.

The sailor was well into his cups, and Matthias bit back a sigh of irritation at having to deal with him. He was used to problems being solved easily and even more used to not making it a habit of dealing with drunken sailors. The sailor blinked drunkenly up at him, raising his mug in a wild toast. A wench passing by had the luxury of having her very ample backside pinched as she shuffled by – she let out a cry of surprise and would have rounded on the sailor with a vicious slap if Matthias had interjected himself.

“You’ll pardon my friend. As you can see, he has had far too much to drink.”

The wench blinked at him, color rising in her cheeks. Matthias then turned his back on her, pulling out a chair and settling himself into it. The sailor squinted his eyes and leaned forward – Matthias could smell the overwhelming stench of alcohol and rotten breath. “Merchant, are ye?”

“A traveler. I was told I could speak with you.”

The sailor’s eyes didn’t quite focus on him. “That the truth of it? What’re you looking for?”

“A ship that travels fast. I need to reach the port at Le Havre within three days.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Four days then. Leaving tonight.”

The sailor eyed him with something akin to confusion and contempt. “You merchants, all the same. Think the world spins diff'rently because you want somethin'.” He lifted his finger, wagging it drunkenly. “Not so much, not so much at all.”

Matthias growled in annoyance. People did _not_ tell _him_ no. “Then maybe you’ll direct me to someone who will.” What had Jan been playing at, sending him over to this bumbling fool?

“No one’ll go out in this storm. Not a soul, dead or alive. Listen – even the ghosts shriek in fear of the gales. Yer a fool to even consider it, but I know better.” He raised a mug to his lips, a half-hearted snarl sitting on his lips. “We’ve all got people we want to get back to, eh? Let me tell you somethin'. The world doesn’t move like that. It doesn’t change and go in a diff'rent directions because you’ve got your cock in a knot and need some homely lass to straighten it out for you.”

Matthias’s temper flared and he batted the mug out of the man’s hand, shattering it.

_Pain._

He let out a howl of surprise, stumbling to his feet and staring in shock at his ale-soaked, blistered hand. The chair clattered loudly to the floor behind him as the sailor wheeled his arms in an attempt to regain his balance. Wenches and patrons alike looked up at the sudden ruckus, the loud murmur of conversation dying down to a droning buzz.

 _Empty night!_ Matthias thought furiously. But he only had a half-second to assemble his thoughts - the drunken man let out a roar and charged at him from across the table, sending mugs flying. Matthias darted back with inhuman speed, nearly bumping into a trio of young women just behind him, but it wasn’t fast enough. The drunken man grabbed him by the front of his cloak and punched him violently across the jaw.

Scarlet pain that was only half because of the blow washed over him, and he staggered back. _No, this can’t be!_

He distantly heard a roar from the other patrons, could see violence descend on the tavern like a plague of locusts. Tables were flipped, mugs of ale went flying into the air, and punches were thrown seemingly at random as the wenches screamed in both fear and delight. Matthias barely managed to hold his ground as he was shoved back and forth by the sudden rioting crowd. Over the din, he thought he heard Jan’s bellow for calm, much too close for comfort.

 _Why would he send me to this man?_ Matthias ducked beneath a punch, trying to get away from the sailor that was protected by true love. He felt the man grab him by the edge of his cloak and attempt to drag him back, letting out a triumphant cry as he started raining punches down around Matthias’s neck and shoulders. Matthias gritted his teeth as each blow that landed on his skin sent white-hot daggers of agony through him, trying to get out of the damn cloak and get away.

And just as suddenly as the pummeling had begun, the cacophony in his ears abruptly subsided and Matthias felt himself dragged to his feet by a pair of sturdy arms.

“You picked a horrible time for a fight here, boy.”

His head still ringing from the blows inflicted on him, Matthias could only half-stumble behind the man that had picked him up off the filthy floor. The man seemed to know the easiest ways through the fighting, rambunctious crowd, his grip like steel on Matthias’s arm. He could only catch quick glimpses of the stranger’s face - dark hair, the hint of a beard, most of his face shadowed beneath a hat.

The man found an empty piece of wall and shoved Matthias into it with a growl. “You can still stand, can’t you, vampire?”

Matthias’s head shot up and he stared at the stranger with more than a little suspicion. “What?”

The man snorted. “You’re pretty single-minded for a Raith.” He wiped at his nose then and his hand came away bloody. He let out a grumbled curse. “What’s this Jan tells me about a sister?”

 _Who is this man?_ Matthias’s thoughts were racing, struggling to put themselves together. His head still rang from where the drunken sailor had viciously begun boxing around his ears. He frowned blankly at him, tasting blood on his tongue - damn it, the little tart had been for nothing if he was already bleeding not even ten minutes after he had finished with her. “What do you know about my sister?”

“I know no normal person blisters up like that when hit,” the man said casually, dipping his hand into his pockets and coming out with a dirty handkerchief. “From your aura, I assumed you were a bloody vampire. White Court, of course. The Reds favor warmer climates and the Blacks...well, you don’t look like a Black.”

Matthias said nothing. The man grinned at him.

“You’ll be wanting to head to northern France, Jan tells me. I had to make sure I knew what I was dealing with.” He snorted. “Men don’t take lightly to having vampires aboard their ships. Especially ones that are Hungry.”

“So you told Jan to send me to that sailor of yours to make sure.” Matthias had to begrudgingly admit it wasn’t a bad idea except for the fact that now his demon was growling in annoyance, the light that it had stolen from the girl now forced to make repairs on his reddened and blistered skin. “Clever buck.”

The man’s smile turned wolfish. “Clever, yes. But you’re desperate.”

Matthias couldn’t help it - he pretended to be nonchalant. “I seek immediate travel. Make of it what you will.”

The man studied him for a long moment. Matthias found his stare to be unnerving and began to adjust his cloak, frowning when he found that there was a long rip in it, leaving a good portion of the cloth trailing on the floor. He scowled - it had been the one good cloak he had left before everything had gone to hell, and now this. Wonderful.

“Fine,” the man said after a moment. “We head towards the Cape, but a stop in northern France won’t do much harm. What shall you pay me?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Ah, prices are wonderful when they can be named by the receiver,” the man - the captain - replied jauntily. He crossed his arms. “But you must know that I do not take passengers lightly. Especially ones of your...infamy.”

Matthias scowled, adjusting his cloak and allowing his demon to heal the wounds he had received from the sailor. “I am less than infamous.”

“Not you. Your family. I’ve heard that the Wardens are keeping a closer eye on the White Court.”

A buck who knew about the Wardens and the vampire courts. His demon curled around his thoughts, hissing that this one was dangerous, beware. He had better tread carefully - the buck was smart too, tossing him to the one sailor who could could protect himself in case Matthias had decided to act violently. Matthias quietly said, “Oh?”

The captain’s eyes glimmered. “Yes. There are rumors about the White King himself and his two siblings...”

 _I’m sure there are._ “Rumors. Nothing more, nothing less.” A mug crashed against the wall less than a foot away from they were standing, and Matthias winced as ale went tumbling down the sleeve of his coat. “Well. When do we leave?”

The captain let out a ferocious yawn and looked around the chaotic tavern, his eyes deceptively lazy. Thunder boomed and rumbled through the building, but it was nearly muted by the screaming and crashing within the tavern. Matthias was starting to regret having walked into the establishment in the first place. For all of the progress that the Dutch prided themselves in, their brawls were still exceptionally dirty, exceptionally loud, exceptionally ridiculous.

“Tonight. We can leave tonight.”

:::

I am a creature of habit, no doubt. I am selfish and vain and perhaps even hypocritical, but I refuse to hide these so-called flaws behind a mask of indifference. Long ago, when I first became aware of the demon that would lay wrapped around my soul like an unwanted lover, I promised myself that no sibling of mine would ever go through the transformation without knowing their choices in the matter. I would give them their choices when no one else would - not Lara, not Natalia, not my father. Lara hides behind her ambition, Natalia behind her compassion, and my father...

The man - that vampire - is a mystery to me. I no longer know what he wants, what he believes. But he hides his secrets from us all and I know one day, those secrets will pile up higher than the grandest mountain and ruin him. I care not to see his fall, only that I wish to be far far away when it happens.

I will start with Ursula - a small fissure in his armor. The Raith who could choose what she wanted to be. Yes, it is small and I’m sure my father will consider us easily replaceable once we have vanished into the West Indies to start a life anew. But he will forget about us just as he forgot about me, his only son, in the Netherlands.

I do not seek a revolution. But my future siblings will be granted the promise of free will. One small broken promise at a time. We leave in the evening to the West and with my remaining scant luck, I shall rescue Ursula. The rest of the family can be damned for all that I care - my older siblings, my uncle, my aunt, my cousins. They quiver in the shadow of the White King, and Ursula will never have to face that same fate.

Never fear, my dearest _zusje_. Your brother races towards you with the promise of your freedom. It is time to leave.

The crew of the _Flying Dutchman_ is ready.


	4. Interlude

  
**Interlude**   
**The Twins**   


:::

The thing you must understand about the twins is that they unapologetically and irrevocably adore each other.

They are the type that is inseparable, have been since the long days of Italian summers and cold and harsh English winters. They know each other better than they know themselves, a heartbeat outside of the body and the soul that beats in time with their own. In either miles or in dreams, there is little that separates them and it becomes alarming to the point of something otherworldly how one knows when the other is hurt or scared or happy or furious – the ghostly remnants of the emotion settle on the other like a veil, subtly influencing their actions until the other is calmed.

They are terrors amongst the English court, their uncanny ability to know precisely where the other is at creating perfect alibis once they’ve been caught. Their laughter is infectious, their rampant energy just as, and no amount of scolding or threats of physical harm can deter them. They are too quick, too charming, although to call them cunning would be stretching the truth. They use their speed and their looks to sidle out of punishments, but their family knows better, entrapping them with words and vicious threats and the twins _know_ not to cross them.

Time passes.

The boy is the first to turn, luring the pretty daughter of a duchess to bed and waking next to a cooling body. She feels his panic and his confusion and she is the first there before the rest of the household awakes, comforting him with quiet words and soft touches and together they devise a plan to get rid of the body before anyone else becomes the wiser.

In later weeks, the gardener of a neighboring manor finds an unpleasant, rotting surprise in the blooming rosebushes.

It perhaps goes without saying that the girl follows in her twin’s footsteps a short time later, the demon within him alien to her but calling to and for her blood. She is not as picky as some would be; she only knows that she wants to follow on the dangerous and darkened road her brother has started on without her. It is not to easy to hide the body this time and they have to enlist the help of their father who warns them of discretion and of secrets best kept hidden from murmuring courtiers and wandering eyes.

And this goes on.

They discover a newfound freedom in this new state, taking only cursory heed of their father’s words and indulging in every bit of lustful decadence that they can grab hold of. They are at the center of gossip and scandal, so much so that eventually their father (acting on their uncle’s explicit demand) ships them off to other countries, the girl to France and the boy to Spain. The fire and the secrets must die down before they can return.

Being apart is horrendous for both of them. Her temper, already infamous for its brevity, flares more often, and he finds himself in a bitterly morose mood that lasts years at a time, his bedmates more and more likely to end up as corpses. One of their cousins worries about them, the other is exasperated by their theatrics. It doesn’t matter. For the first time, they are apart and utterly and completely lost without the other.

They find each other eventually and through no planning on the part of their elders – it is nearly the turn of the century and the Elizabethan era is drawing to a close. The two of them just happen to stumble upon one another at a Parisian masque, no silver and black mask hiding what they truly were to each other. Their previously muted sense of one another sparks back to life with such vigor and exuberance that perhaps it is not so strange to think about what follows – an illicit and chaotic jumble of lust and demonic intention, of caresses and gasped moans, of a ravenous hunger that settles deep within them.

They have always been one and the same in mind and intention, but over the years, they return to each other to learn different secrets, sublime and mysterious. Beneath his touch, she feels more whole than when she takes any number of silly bucks to bed; with her kisses and murmured approval, his own demon is stroked into a submission that he never allows, _can_ never allow, anyone else to reach. They feed on each other, a möbius strip of a demon’s desire and thirst, constantly fueled by burning at both ends.

This continues.

When their father dies, it is only them. But it has been only them for centuries – they note his passing with little more than ire towards their uncle, the White King, but go back to their playground that is the world. These things happen, but they know from ages and lifetimes ago not to anger the King – they may not have had the craftiness of their eldest cousin, but they knew enough about survival to err on the side of caution when it comes to their family.

Then...something changes.

And one day, when the girl wakes up to find that the constant centuries-long presence of her brother, her twin, her soulmate is _gone_ , her mind unravels and she screams until there is no sound.


	5. Ursula

**| 4 |**

_All men are liable to error; and most men are, in many points, by passion or interest, under temptation to it._

:::

I was never the favorite.

 _That_ position had always belonged to the eldest daughter, to Lara. I hear that her first trial by fire resulted in her devastating the relations between the English crown and the Church, leading to the Reformation. As for the rest of us lesser siblings in my lord father's eyes, Natalia is known for her prettiness (and worse, her compassion), Felicia for her vanity, and my two long-dead brothers...well, it doesn’t really matter what _their_ accomplishments had been.

I am the unfavorite, the embarrassment...just as I’ve planned.

For as much as I have pretended to be the innocent little doe in my father’s eyes, to be the sister who was too silly and too vapid to know the true dangers of the world, I have utterly twisted their minds without any sort of demonic deception. It is a feat that even my eldest sister Lara has yet to figure out – and for this I will scorn her forever. Perfect Lara, beautiful Natalia, vain Felicia – my sisters whom everyone supposes that I _adore_ , without restraint, without so much as a second guess. They believe me to be guileless, untarnished by the world – but how wrong they are. They don’t know how much I laugh at them when their backs have been turned, when they leave me alone to “poor little Ursula’s wiles”.

But what I have pretended to be has cost me. Mayhaps a lesser vampire than I would have scoffed at the implications of having to play the fool for so many years. It has caused people to overlook me, to pass me off as harmless. Once upon a time, it _may_ have stung, but that is a time forgotten in the past. Because of their sheer ineptitude, Father and his siblings have let _so_ many secrets slip. It is almost embarrassing how careless they’ve been...but I suppose I cannot complain. It is this carelessness that allowed me to see the chink in their armor.

For as long as I can remember, the Raiths have been the ruling Family of the White Court. But the way I see it, we have only clung to power because the other three Families are utterly incapable of putting together a scheme to overthrow Father that _doesn’t_ reveal them to be world-class simpletons. Father rests on his throne by sheer luck, glamour, and reputation, things that can be easily proven fleeting. And if Father falls, the rest of us will do so as well. While I by no means _admire_ any of my sisters, my love for them is thick enough that I care not to see what would happen to them if we fell.

So I decided to act and not in the way my foolish brother did some years ago before he was lost to the sea (rumor has it that he did it to save me from this life, but he’s more the fool for believing he could do so in the first place). It has taken decades, though not nearly as long as my sisters have lived – a shame that in their nearly two hundred years on this forsaken planet, they could not see the precarious state of affairs.

I have finally decided to act, to usurp the throne from my father. They will see things as they truly are and not how they _want_ them to be. Let the Council play as knights, let the other Courts run their games – but I have grander dreams.

It will start with a powerful alliance.

:::

_Basilica Papale di San Pietro_   
_Rome_ _, Italy_

“ _Deus meus, credo in te, spero in te, amo te super omnia ex tota anima mea, ex toto corde meo, ex totis viribus meis..._ ”

The words slipped from the young woman’s mouth, her hands folded and her head bowed in supplication in front of St. Helena; the cold marble cast a whitish-gold glow on the walls due to the torches flickering at intervals along walls that ascended to the shadows of the vaulted ceiling. Everywhere there were statues whose faces gleamed with holy adoration, ethereal kindness, or righteous fury, shadows flickering across their forms, creating illusions of movement. The silence, like the basilica itself, was immense, echoes swallowed by the sheer grandeur of the building, rising up higher and higher, like a hallowed hallelujah.

The young woman was ignored by the few others roaming about the hall - it was late enough to be considered early, the faintest gray beams of dawn still at least one or two hours away. To any passersby, she would have looked like a simple convert, a strand of prayer beads dangling from her hand. It wasn’t often that people would come to the basilica so early in the morning, but there were some whose faith moved them to do so – they could let her be for her moment of penance.

“ _Amo te quia es infinite bonus et dignus qui ameris..._ ”

“What you’re doing could be considered blasphemy.”

The young woman didn’t even stumble in her prayer – she simply paused, a small smile curling up onto her face. “So could your being here.” She turned her head to the side, glancing up at the man who now stood immediately to her right, looking up at the image of St. Helena in what would have been polite esteem. He had appeared apparently from the shadows, the same shadows which seemed to drape over him like a blood-stained cloak. He was passably handsome, dark of hair and eye, and wearing the expensive clothes of an Italian nobleman.

The only singular thing that was odd about him was the thin bit of rope hanging around his neck like a noose.

He smiled benevolently at her and tipped his head forward in a brief nod of acknowledgement, his shadow bubbling on the floor just beneath him – an illusion. “That may be true, but I’ve elected to believe that He cannot be found in manmade buildings despite their monumental stature.” He held out his hands, palms towards the ceiling. “I have yet to find myself exorcized for stepping onto holy ground.”

“Be that as it may,” Ursula Raith replied, rising to her feet with uncommon grace, “I’d rather not be around when the White God strikes you down for corrupting His place of worship with your...rather curious affairs.”

“I wasn’t aware that the White Court involved themselves in the battle between heaven and earth.”

“You are very correct in that assumption - the _White Court_ does not.” Her emphasis was clear, her smile practically angelic itself. “Now _signore_ Archleone, with pleasantries aside, shall we get down to business?” She looked high up at the dome, its illustrious gold paneling and colorful artwork hidden by the shadows of the night – not even the presence of windows let in any light from the stars. “You didn’t come alone, did you?”

Nicodemus shook his head, not following her gaze. Instead, he continued to look upon the gargantuan statue of the saint holding the Cross. “It seemed imprudent not to.”

“Who?”

“My daughter. She was very...insistent.”

 _I’m sure she was_ , Ursula thought as they made their way around the gigantic altar, their footsteps silent in the darkened basilica. She listened momentarily for the telltale whistling of the Denarian’s bladed strands of hair, but heard nothing save for the near-soundless prayers of the priests and clergymen hidden behind the columns and enormous curved walls. Of course, that wouldn’t mean anything if Deirdre was still in her human form, lurking somewhere just beyond her senses. “Did you bring it with you?”

Nicodemus folded his hands behind his back as they approached the apse, the gilded _Cathedra Petri_ somehow illuminated despite the darkness that threatened to swallow the entire basilica whole. It looked utterly intimidating and ostentatious in the flame-flecked shadows, but Ursula had seen worse in her lifetime. Empty-eyed cherubs flew around the throne – because as glorified as it was, it could only be a throne – while embossed rays of light flew down upon the humongous bronze statues of four saintly men, Doctors of the Church. It was massive and beautiful and awe-inspiring...to anyone except for the two people currently standing in front of it.

Ursula assumed that the kine would need some sort of religious exquisiteness in their life, euphoria to their spiritual senses rather than their physical. Fortunately for _her_ , she knew how to override that base need of enlightenment, to turn _herself_ into a goddess of desire to be worshipped at any and all costs. She had broken more than one person that way, and would continue to do so when her plan unfurled the way she had designed.

“It is rather striking,” drawled Nicodemus finally.

Ursula’s brows knitted into a frown. “You are stalling, _signore_ , and I am very sure that you don’t have all night either. Are you ready for the exchange or not?” Her tone was calculated to be the perfect measure of boredom, her eyelids drooping to an almost drowsy expression. “Unless you would rather conduct our business...elsewhere.”

“You mean to seduce me, _signorina_?” There was a note of amusement in his voice, and Ursula pursed her lips – as much as she would rather not let him get under her skin, his blasé attitude towards their exchange grated her nerves. It _was_ a deal with the devil, more or less to speak, if the traditions and rumors were true – but Ursula was never one for half-hearted gossip and classical fairy tales come to life.

“I mean to conduct business. Where is it?”

“One would think that immortality would grant one more patience.” Nicodemus shook his head regretfully, but reached inside his cloak to pull out a small leather bag tied with twine, the bag itself obviously having seen better days. Ursula watched as his shadow flickered in the candlelight – it almost seemed to have a life of its own, but again she passed it off as a trick of the eye. “My end of the bargain, _Signorina_ Raith. I can only hope you’ve kept yours.”

Ursula’s gray-blue eyes gleamed in the golden light of the flames, keeping her eyes on the satchel. There was something strange about that too, but she shrugged it off – another illusion of shadows. “Yes, of course. But I would like to see your dear daughter first.”

Nicodemus narrowed his eyes.

She gave him a swift smile. “No offense, my dear _signore_ , but I hardly trust you.”

The cold and dark look in his eyes didn’t _quite_ disappear as he chuckled. “You are very astute.” He nodded to the pier just behind her. “Deirdre.”

There was movement just out of the corner of Ursula’s eye, and she turned just in time to see a slim, sleepy-eyed young woman dressed in austere clothing appear from the shadows of the pillars guarding the newly-constructed monument of Clement X. She blinked slowly at Ursula, a frown marring her innocent-looking features. “Father, I don’t like her telling us what to do. May I kill her?”

“Hush now, dearest.” Nicodemus turned back to Ursula, that same lazy, leonine look appearing on his face. “I have complied with your request and removed every precaution that I would usually have in this situation in order to put you at ease.” He held up the pouch again. “I have held up my end of the bargain – I expect you to do likewise.”

Ursula nodded. “Of course. You will be supplied with your half once I have left Rome.”

Nicodemus frowned at her. “That wasn’t in the arrangement.”

“Neither was she.” Ursula gestured lazily in the direction of Deirdre, whose face twisted in a petulant scowl. “I take my precautions just as thoroughly as you do yours.”

 _And I know you_ , she added silently as father and daughter exchanged looks. _I know your type. So patient and ruthless, but you overlook anyone you see as beneath you, never taking into account their needs and desires and the basic satisfaction known as survival. Silly freak._ She looked back at the _Cathedra Petri_ , relishing the moment. Soon. Soon this little charade would be over – Nicodemus would see her as a competent ally, one not to be tricked, and together they would easily restore stability to the throne.

She smiled inwardly – vampires and fallen angels, working together. How quaint.

“ _Signorina_ Raith.”

She turned back to the father and the daughter, a beatific smile on her face. “ _Sí_?”

Nicodemus returned the smile with a grim nod of his own, toying with the leather bag in his hand. Deidre looked particularly upset. “Your bargain is well-played. I doubt that I would have been able to achieve this much without you.” He almost seemed to hesitate before giving one more firm nod, as if agreeing to some stray thought in his head. “Yes, I see that it must be that way. What are you hoping to achieve?”

Ursula allowed herself a triumphant smile. Perfect.

“Stability, _signore_.” _Even you would want that, wouldn’t you?_ “I wish nothing more than to see the throne of the White Court secured by someone worth occupying it.” She had to be careful with her words – she could say nothing about her true intentions, not yet. Duplicity was the currency of the supernatural world – it was the very reason why she had not put her trust in faeries. Angels, despite their age, were easier to manipulate. They at least fell to the same temptations that thwarted the kine - every known vice and decadency that was available.

“And that someone would be you?” Nicodemus asked, raising a dark brow. His daughter sneered; Ursula ignored her and lowered her eyes in what may have been a show of humility. She knew it unsettled him to have her switch dispositions so easily – from haughty predator to innocent lamb. She could see it in his eyes, the brief flash of uncertainty.

“If it so pleases everyone,” she murmured almost timidly, keeping her voice soft. _So easy to blind even the angels._ “I find myself at a crossroads, so to speak. I know not what I want to do, only that I wish for my Family’s strength to be undiminished.”

Nicodemus laughed.

Ursula lifted her eyes to see him shaking his head in delight, his dark eyes crinkled at the edges in what looked to be honest amusement. For a moment, she allowed confusion to flood her features and quietly asked, “Why do you laugh?”

“Ursula Raith, you are far too simple for your own good.”

 _He thinks to have figured me out._ Ursula narrowed her eyes. “I’m afraid I don’t understand...”

“Ah, but you _do_.” He threw the tiny leather satchel at her feet and finally Ursula was struck by what had been so odd about it – there was no jingle of coins when it hit the cool marble floor. The bag was empty of anything that would have been of worth to her, possibly only filled with pebbles or dirt or debris. She had _suspected_ that he might do something like that, but... _why_? It made no sense – she had proved herself to be a cautious ally, a partner not even his idiotic wife could have dared dreamed to be.

The fallen angel smiled at her, in that same condescending way one would smile to a half-witted child. Ursula’s own pride burned viciously hot in heart at the smile, but she managed to keep that same befuddled expression on her face. She did not want to play this game with him – how dare he attempt to trick _her_? She could hear nearly _hear_ Deirdre’s glee, and she swallowed every bit of rage that threatened to consume her.

Instead, she stiffly murmured, “You dishonored our agreement.”

“There was never to be an agreement.” There was such a casual air to his voice that Ursula wanted to tear out his throat. “In your ambition, you became careless. You started putting your trust in people that in any other time you would have been wary of.” He waved his hand. “I have enough careless allies – I don’t wish for any more.”

“I have done _nothing_ except be cautious!” Ursula exclaimed, unable to restrain her temper. She _hated_ being talked to as if she knew nothing – she had grown used to it from her family, but she would _not_ take such insolence from a disgraced angel. “I have donned dozens of masks over the years to fool everyone!”

“And perhaps in another century or two, you would have been very good at it.” Nicodemus sat down on one of the pews and Ursula, for the first time in a very long time, felt uncertainty bubble like acid in her heart. His shadow, which she had previously thought to be twitching due to the torchlight, _had not moved_. It continued to splay across the floor, a pool of dark gray that seemed to suddenly expand towards the _Cathedra Petri_ and the golden cherubs. She took a step backwards, cursing her sudden fear.

Nicodemus looked up at her, patience in his voice as he explained, “Your family is none too happy with you either, _signorina_.”

Wintry dread made her go rigid. She briefly glanced at Deirdre who had gone back to looking dull, rocking back and forth on her feet. _That’s not possible. He would have had to actually speak with the others. He’s lying. He must be trying to bait me._ She rose up to her full height, looking down her nose at him. “You are a liar, Nicodemus Archleone. My family would never dare speak with the likes of you.”

“You are quite mistaken,” Nicodemus replied, watching his shadow gather around the throne of St. Peter. “No, it would do me no good to lie here of all places. But your sister, the eldest of the Raith daughters, contacted me with her suspicions.” A faint look of... _respect_ darkened his eyes. “She was quite clever.”

 _No, she couldn’t have known. I’m sure of it._ Ursula gathered her skirts in her hand, lifting her chin in disgust. “I will not have these lies surround me. If you cannot trust me, then our bargain is off.” She turned to leave, wrapping her outraged dignity around her like an invincible cloak...and found herself face-to-face with her lord father.

Lord Raith had a stark, impregnable attractiveness about him, the kind of black and white beauty that had brought does and bucks of even the grandest monarchies to their knees. She had been subjected to that cool attraction and dark desire in more than one instance, much to her disgust. But her own Hunger was a mewling pup compared to the prowling tiger that was his, and they both knew it. It made her loathe and fear him, but most of all, it made her cautious whenever she dealt with him. She _had_ to stay under his notice, pretend that she was too foolish to be worth his time.

And now he stood there like one of the dozens of marble statues that surrounded them in the dark gold light of the basilica. The shadows and the light played havoc across his face, making it impossible to decipher his expression. Somehow though, Ursula knew that whatever she was said, she was going to be treading on paper-thin ice.

“My lord,” she whispered, collapsing into a billowing curtsy and putting her mask back on, already trying to figure out a way to spin her words to paint Nicodemus in the most unflattering light. _How long has he been standing there? Damn Nicodemus and that asinine girl._ Lord Raith was silent. Ursula cursed his timing, but kept still. What was Nicodemus playing at?

“ _Signore_.” His voice was deep and imposing, reverberating through the entire apse even with that one single word. And cold. Very cold. Ursula tried and failed not to shudder at the power lanced through his voice, and closed her eyes. She felt his gaze upon her like icy pinpricks driving into her skull – she struggled to ignore it. “My dearest Ursula, whatever brings you to this place?”

 _Be careful_. “Prayers, my lord.” She allowed herself a small smile, trying to make it as blasé as possible. “And the younger priests, of course.”

“Of course,” her father replied lazily, and the pinpricks vanished. “Lara was correct. I didn’t expect treason to come from my own daughter.”

Ursula’s head shot up, but her father was no longer paying any attention to her. “My lord, I don’t understand. Treason?”

“He was standing there for quite awhile, _signorina_.” Nicodemus’s reply was almost sympathetic, but she imagined him still sitting in the pew, hands folded on his lap, his eyes closed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his shadow less than a few yards away – if she were to lay down, she would be able to touch the very edge of it. “I suspect that your elder sister is responsible for that.”

“But-” Inside, Ursula was seething. How _dare_ Lara inform their father – if she was so wise and so cunning, she would have dealt with Ursula herself. Then Ursula would have done the sisterly thing and had a mercenary leave a knife in her ribs or poison in her wine.

Lord Raith cut off her protests with a wave of his hand. “It is unsettling to know that family can be as treacherous as one’s enemies. Perhaps that is why the wound is so much deeper.” He didn’t sound _that_ upset about it – in fact, the casualness of the conversation made Ursula think that both her lord father and Nicodemus had forgotten about her presence and were simply discussing the weather. “What harm has she done you?”

Was it Ursula’s imagination or did she sense a smile in Nicodemus’s voice? “No harm. But it is an inconvenience, I admit. For all of her follies, she could manage to weaken both of our positions. Something that I am sure you'd rather not see happen.”

“I understand.” There was a long pause, long enough for Ursula to hear her own heart pounding loudly in her chest. What could she say? She must _do_ something, must rectify the situation somehow. She looked from her lord father to Nicodemus, saw him exactly as she had imagined, with Deirdre watching her with the same intense concentration a child would a new toy. It was a disturbing hunger, different from her own, and for the first time in a very long time, she felt powerless.

 _No_ , she thought to herself, stubbornly rising to her feet. _No. I am a daughter of Raith – no one will make me cower._ “My lord,” she said, her voice dripping with respect and a touch of her own Hunger to persuade. “My lord, this monstrosity hopes to incite discord amongst the Court. You cannot take the word of this... _thing_ over your own Blood.”

Deirdre hissed, taking a step towards her. “You lying-”

Ursula barely noted it or the fact that Nicodemus silenced her with a single look. She only watched as her father waited a moment and then quietly and nonchalantly held out his arms for her as he had never done before. She looked uncertainly into those devastating dark blue eyes sparkled with silver - this was falling apart. Her father dare not display such easy compassion or forgiveness in front of someone as powerful as Nicodemus. It would be political and social suicide to show weakness.

And he must have known it.

If she accepted the embrace, she would kill them all. Surely it would not happen soon - no, Nicodemus was a patient man - but it _would_ happen. They would fight back, and neither she nor her father would admit to it happening. It would be their word against his...unless Nicodemus had lied about the number of retainers he had brought with him. He had not said that _only_ his daughter lurked in the shadows of the great basilica. And Father himself would not have come alone.

It was a standoff, one that she could tip either way. If she agreed with her father, the Denarians would be on them like wild cats on prey - sure, they have may been able to hold them off, but for how long? On the other hand, if she accepted what her father said and stepped back to Nicodemus, she would prove herself a liar and a traitor. Even if she escaped, she would never live without constantly looking over her shoulder again.

And if she did nothing...

Ursula began to tremble, both in fear and rage. It was perfect. A perfect trap. If she did anything, she was damned. If she did nothing, she was equally equally condemned.

She watched as her father slowly lowered her arms, a glint in his eyes that she could not place. It was as if he was an executioner and had just lowered the axe - bile rose up her gorge, and she fought not to scream at the futility of all of it. Everything that she had planned, everything that she had done - it had tumbled apart the moment she had walked into the basilica.

Damn. Damn him.

Damn _her_.

:::

_Et quio amo te, me paeitet ex toto corde offendisse_.

Pain.

I do not know how much time has passed since that day in the basilica. All of my days since then have passed in torturous agony, in a dank and dark room buried beneath the earth. At the beginning, there had not been silence either but my screams have long since torn my throat to shreds and when I open my mouth, no sound comes forth.

Father...no, not my lord father. _Lord Raith_ said I should suffer the consequences of my actions and I have no doubt that he will tell the others that I was and am a traitor, suffering as traitors do. Maybe Lara will know the truth - perhaps she was the silent witness in the basilica several hours, days, weeks, months, years ago. I do not know. I will never know. But my sisters and the newest Raith, a boy named Victor, will remember me as a vile creature. I will be forgotten, my name condemned.

_Miserere mihi peccatori. Miserere met et salve me._

Deirdre is to visit today, like many days and weeks and who knows how many times before. Cutting. Ripping. Shredding. My dungeon is my grave. Maybe I would have been stubborn. But as the chaotic pain continued, I begged for mercy. I still beg.

One day, Nicodemus will come back. He will listen to me, and we will be great together. The beautiful throne...it will be mine.

Covered in the blood of my sister, I will sit.

He will come.

He must.


	6. Victor

**| 5 |**

_Superstition sets the whole world in flames._

:::

For the past several years, I have dreamt of ravens, their eyes ghostly white and their feathers as glossy as obsidian. They sit on the branches of a snow-dusted tree, heedless of the wind, red autumn leaves still clinging to gnarled black branches. They make no noise, but continue to watch a gray horizon, waiting for something beautiful...or perhaps terrible. No matter how long the dream lasts – seconds, minutes, months, years – most of the ravens never move. They are statues against the featureless landscape. The air is thick with the smell of rain and thunderstorms, but the sky remains the color of granite. The tree sits at a crossroads, and perhaps there is _meaning_ behind this, I am unsure.

When I dream, one of the ravens swivels its head towards me, its beak opened in a cry but no sound comes forth. It is as mute as the landscape for reasons unknown, but it is only a dream...

I wake and I never know where I am. I only know that when I close my eyes, every time I will return to that gray, barren landscape with the ravens and the tree. It disturbed me at first, but the dream has become a companion in the darkness, an image of something familiar. _Seer_ , they say in the waking light. _Abomination…_

_Witch._

_I am not_ , I cry to the ravens in my dreams. _I am not! I am the son of the White King, a prince of Raith!_ The ravens only tilt their heads, the ones that pay me any attention at all. The wind howls like a woman’s scream, and the sky is so _gray_ and foreboding. In my dreams, I scream at the ravens, try to make them _do_ something. Yet and still, in every dream, they ignore me until even the ones that paid me the least bit attention never turn my way.

Except the one. It is not the largest of the birds but its plumage is the most beautiful, every feather sleek and beautiful and as black as pitch. But it is the only one that after years of dreams that still turns towards me, its white eyes opaque but sad.

 _Please_ , I whisper in my dreams. _Give me your wings so that I can fly away._

The raven opens its beak in that silent cry, but it does not stir from its rest on the branch. It is fearful, I believe. When I wake, I can only think of that one raven with its heartbreaking gaze and its beautiful pinions. Sometimes, the wind calls to me in those dreams, and I think it is that raven that sends the gales, to speak to me when it can’t. And when I murmur the wind sayings to the others in the waking world, they stare and whisper and steer clear of me.

_Seer. Abomination. Witch._

My sisters shun me. I may be a prince of Raith, but I cannot be so different from the brothers that have passed. Quiet, studious Tristan and vain, stubborn Matthias – both of them gone for over a hundred years. No one speaks of them, but I known them in my dreams, the rare ones when the ravens and the gray and the wind vanish and leave me in an empty, grandiose hall with chandeliers that drip with blue and white crystal. Tristan comes and Matthias comes and when I was very young, I was visited by a sister who wore her ambition like a shining white cloak.

They tell me the Secret of the family, the Secret that my father does not want us to known until _after_. _Beware, little brother_ , they say. _Beware and tread cautiously or you will be next to join us here in the White Hall._ Because of the dreams, I have avoided the blood of the demon but the dreams themselves are both curse and blessing.

_Seer. Abomination. Witch._

As time passes though, those dreams have dissolved and have left me with only the ravens and the gray. I want to speak to my brothers again, to see my sister, to not be lost and alone and confused.

 _Tell me,_ I plead to the beautiful raven, even as I accept this fate and these dreams. _Tell me what I must do._

It stares back at me, every dream, every night, for years.

The wind howls.

:::

_Amagertorv_   
_Copenhagen_ _, Denmark_

The cell was dank and dark save for the gray-blue light filtering through the barred windows high on the wall, the only sound that of water dripping further down the hall in someone else’s cell. The stone against his back was ice cold, biting viciously into his spine, but he had long since grown numb to the discomfort. He wasn’t bothered by the foul stenches that drifted in from the streets and from down the hall either, the smell of refuse and human waste and vomit. He _did_ mind the sounds that rattled from passersby on the streets though, the sounds that continued day and night and interrupted his dreams.

They were going to come, he knew. It was only a matter of time. He had dreamed of this, dreamed of the trial and the ravens that cared not whether he lived or died. He looked down at the manacles that kept his wrists chained together, rattling them with a sigh. With his dreams, he was never particularly lonely and he had accepted his fate with a nonchalant shrug. One could not fight dreams; one could not change the minds of the ravens.

In the beginning, the guard that had first been posted in front of his cage (it was a cage, just like ones that would have trapped the ravens if they ever left that black tree) had been wary of him, cursing vehemently when he had let slip the manner of the guard’s death. It was accidental, the result of the fog that fell on everyone in between sleeping and waking, but the guard had refused to come back, shouting accusations of sorcery and damnation.

 _It was only an accident_ , he thought tiredly, leaning his head back against the stone wall. His hair was matted and filthy and probably ridden with lice, but he didn’t much care. There were no accidents, not with the rumors swirling about him that had brought him to this cell in the first place. _I am the son of a king, I’ve told the ravens..._

But the ravens hadn’t listened to his plea – they hadn’t done so for many years. When the second guard had fallen mysteriously ill and died a fortnight later, they had blamed him. _A curse_ , they muttered. _A curse spoken by the warlock. Demonspawn. Insane. Worshipper of the Devil._ He knew what they said even though he had never physically heard the words spoken – another bit of darkness that was brought by the winds of the dream.

The others in the prisons spread the rumors like a wildfire, and soon he had been banished to the darkest, coldest cell of the asylum. After the slander had spread, no guard save for the most agnostic would venture near his cell – most of his food was thrown from several yards away. Victor never scrambled for it, only idly picking at the stale bread and hard cheese hours later when his stomach twisted itself into painful knots.

It was why he looked up in confusion when he heard keys rattle against the cell door. No, the ravens wouldn’t have lied about this, nor would the winds. His death would not come so soon and freedom – well, that would only be something his father or eldest sister would grant and neither was a likely option.

The guard escorted a tall shadow into the cell, the pale light of dawn (or twilight or just a gray day like the one constantly in his dreams) falling onto a hooded head. The guard, he remembered, was usually uncommonly surly and coarse, taking pleasure in throwing his food as near to his head as he possibly could and always with a scowl. This time though, the guard was moving as if in a trance, murmuring apologies to the stranger as she – it could only be a she – entered into the cell.

She lifted the white-furred hood away from her face, and Victor stared. He knew this face, didn’t he? The ravens didn’t speak the name, but the winds whispered it to him sometimes. “Lucrezia?”

Her beautiful face became sad, but only for an instant. She turned towards the guard. “I would like to be alone with him.”

The guard fumbled, muttered something, and then vanished with a rattle of keys. The moment he was gone, the stranger who wore no stranger’s face turned back to him and again her blue eyes were full of that unspoken pity. She was wearing a dark wool riding habit beneath the fur-lined cape, unlike the usual white silks that he had come to associate with his family and that he had weeks, months, years ago worn himself.

“Lucrezia?” he murmured again, his voice a harsh and dry rasp. He shivered. “You’ve brought winter with you.”

She knelt by him, running a hand through his hair. “Shhh, brother mine. I’m not Lucrezia.”

Not...? She looked so much like her. He frowned in confusion, reaching up to touch her face but stopping lest he mar the lovely features with dirt and grime. He had to remember his sisters from the haze of memory, drawing their faces before the ravens and the gray. Stony, sharp-faced Ursula, as always came first, as she used to frequent his dreams in the gray. Then there was the youngest, followed by the tiniest – Tatiana and Felicia, neither of who would never have been seen in so disreputable a place. Finally, Lara who was beautiful but not nearly as beautiful as...

“Natalia,” he finally choked out, his fingers bunching in the warm cloth of her cape. “Natalia, _sister_ \- what are doing in Denmark?” Their father would never have allowed for it unless she had defied him. His blood felt chilly at the thought. “The ravens...the ravens never _said_...”

She leaned forward to kiss his forehead, heedless of the filth. “No, Victor. There are no ravens. There have never been ravens.” She pulled back, clasping his hands in her own. Victor found himself drawn to her eyes – the same entrancing almond-shaped eyes that Lucrezia bore. “Empty night, your hands are freezing.”

“There is always ice here, but Raiths bring winter,” Victor replied, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth. He needed water. “Always ice. And the ravens too. They tell me-”

Natalia shook her head, that same ethereal sadness touching her brow. “Victor, please. These things that you see...you must stop telling people this. I have heard what the people say about you.” Her grip tightened and he realized that her hands were nearly as chill as his own. “They say horrible things. That you are a seer, a demonspawn. If I cannot stop them, they mean to burn you for witchcraft.”

“I know.” She was so sad. Felicia and Lara never showed sadness, Tatiana kept to herself, and Ursula was always so haughty in his dreams. _You are too compassionate._ “I know. I’ve seen fire consume the land.”

“Victor...”

“ _Please_ , Natalia.” He shook his head, dirty strands of dark hair ghosting against an unshaven cheek. “I know what they say, I’ve always known.” He squeezed her hands back, the joints in his fingers aching something fierce. There had been ages of disuse and thinking back to a time before the cell and the gray made him very tired. “It’s better this way, that I received this life instead of the life with the demonblood. I would have died young anyway, I think.”

She looked uncertain, but he could see a Hunger boil behind those eyes. He was sure that the demon that prowled in the souls of most of his family would have loved to sink its claws into him, but the family was wary of him as it was. With good reason – he had already been deemed mad for his visions. Why would the Raiths bother to even acknowledge one weak link that was declared insane by the masses? Until now, his siblings had avoided him and he was certain his father expected him to die from starvation or sickness in this cell. A useless pawn.

He struggled to sit up and a hoarse cough battered his lungs and throat. It burned every muscle in his body, but he was used to that too. He was surprised it had taken this long for him to catch the edges of illness, but then again, no matter how much the family shunned him, he was still a Raith prince. _That_ blood would still flow through his veins, even if he had never turned the way his sisters and his long-dead brothers had.

Natalia sat by him, and she looked so incredibly out of place in the damp cell that he couldn’t help but smile. He kept his fingers intertwined with hers, even if his joints were cold and stiff. The presence of a sibling was so rare, and there was not much time left. He wanted the simple pleasure of holding her hand to last as long as possible.

“You could still survive this,” Natalia whispered, absently stroking the back of his hand with long, white fingers. “If you just feed on one of the does...”

“It won’t change anything, Tasha.” The nickname fell from his lips before he had even realized it – a leftover from childhood, ages ago. Even as a child, the beginnings of the dreams and visions had plagued him, but the sky hadn’t been so gray. He heard her short intake of breath at the name, saw her jaw clench around grief. “Father’s raven is cruel, and the shadow wings are broad. He would never let me live if I became like the rest of you and became a threat to his power.”

His sister fell quiet, and a long stretch of silence followed.

After several moments, Victor murmured in a lighter tone, “I am trying to imagine Lara in this cell.”

Natalia let out an unladylike snort. “How comes that thought?”

“Oddly. Maybe if there were more chains.” Natalia blinked and then let out a sweet peal of laughter that quieted the other prisoners further down the corridor. Victor relished that too – it had been too long since he had heard pure joy, not the mocking or derisive laughter that he had faced in front of the judges and the crowds. “I have missed all of you sorely. Even her.”

“Lara means us no harm.”

 _How quickly you defend her, Tasha, when I have said nothing._ “She is our father’s right hand, more than Marsilio or Lucrezia will ever be.”

Natalia was quiet for a thoughtful moment. “Victor, she never had a choice. None of us ever had a _choice_.”

He sighed, closing his eyes and leaning further back against the icy stone wall. “She is one of the other ravens, Tasha. She is more of that blood than she is of ours.” He tightened his grip on her hand, a reassuring squeeze. “You may think me mad, but the visions have never led me falsely. She will be far more dangerous than any of us know. The shadow of her raven eclipses Father’s - I’ve seen blood on her wings, the corpses of several other ravens.” Natalia shook her head, her lips pressed into a firm line. Victor knew it would be difficult if not impossible to convince her otherwise until she saw the bodies and destruction herself.

 _She has known Lara the longest_ , he remembered. _She remembers her from before, the protective elder sister...but things have changed, dear Tasha. We have all changed, and none of us for the better._

Silence passed again and outside, twilight began to drape its violet-gold curtain over the city. The sounds of the square became quieter as merchants and townsfolks disappeared into warmer buildings as the cold night air of spring began to sink its claws into the city. The fading light created murkier shadows in his cell - if he was correct and the ravens told the truth, this would be the last evening he would ever see. It didn’t make him sad, although he wished he had been able to see more beauty in it. He had not seen enough beauty in the past twenty-nine years of his life - there was something sorrowful about spending his last night chained in the gloom of a cell.

He hadn’t realized his face was damp from tears until he felt Natalia’s cool fingers brush his cheek. He turned to face her and saw pain in her eyes, a pain he knew that none of the others would dare to feel. “Victor, please. I beg you. I will bring someone to you. I cannot bare to lose another sibling.”

He reached up to touch her hand, smiling gently. “There are many more ravens that will fall, Tasha. Don’t think I weep for myself.” Despite the grime coating his clothing, he pulled her into a hug and she fell into it with a shudder. He had never held Natalia or any of his sisters before - other than Tatiana, he was the youngest and they had been eternally youthful for decades. It was comforting to do, and it felt so natural. Perhaps he never would have felt this if he had given into lust and temptation and forgone his visions years ago.

A small price to pay.

“I think about our mothers sometimes.” Natalia’s voice was small in the growing darkness. “What our other families must be like, the mortal side.”

Victor rested his chin on the top of her head - he knew what she may have meant to say. He had never given into the immortal side of the family, and Natalia herself, the most beautiful of the Raith daughters, would never know a mortal family that had never existed. He let her speak.

She ran her finger down the seam of his shirt. “I think...”

There was a dream of that - three grand ravens, sitting at the top of the gnarled old tree, and every smaller raven sitting in the branches below. All were black as night with luxurious plumage, but there was something about the smaller ravens that marked them only slightly imperfect. A feather out of place, a slightly crooked beak, a stubby tail. There was only one, the most beautiful of them all, that had no imperfections whatsoever. And why would it, if it was the offspring of two of the grand ravens?

Natalia didn’t finish speaking, and Victor quietly held her closer. “I think about them too.”

“Sometimes, I wish...”

He kissed the top of her head. “I do too.”

“You will not change your mind?”

“The wind has already called. The ravens know. My visions have never been false.”

She shivered in his arms, but did not sit up. “Visions can be wrong.”

 _Your heart is still gentle._ Victor felt the ice claws of the stone sink into his spine, but he brushed the discomfort away. The path his sisters would trod would never be simple, and there was simply no road for the King’s male offspring. Immortality and beauty may have been tokens wished for by mankind, but they were just as much of a curse as pain, sickness, and death. There was no easy life to live amongst those with a beating heart. “We are what we make of dreams, Tasha. It is better this way.”

“Even if you burn?”

“Even if I burn. I’d rather choose to die like this than live in fear when Father turns his eye towards me.”

“Victor...” She clasped his hand tighter, and he held her closer in the darkness of the cell as night fell.

Morning would come soon enough.

:::

In the dream, I stand at a table in the White Hall.

This time it is full as it has never been. The silence is drowned out by laughter and amiable conversation, true warmth that I have never recalled once in my life. The wine is rich and sweet, the food plentiful, the servants laden with steaming platters otherworldly in their beauty. I hear music, but it is unlike any music that I have ever heard before – it is near heavenly in its grand scope, each note like the same crystal that falls from the chandeliers. There seems to be no place at the crowded table for me, but for some reason, I am content to act as a ghost, looking at each of the faces in turn.

I watch as the kind raven, the most illustrious of them all, perches on the back of Natalia’s chair – she is radiant with loveliness, as startling beautiful as any goddess. The silvery-gold light falls onto her braided hair, her eyes far kinder than any have the right to be. She sits between my father and Lucrezia and her true parentage has never been more apparent as she lifts her wineglass to me in what is both acknowledgement and a farewell.

My father and Lucrezia never take notice of me – the King’s glass is full of wine that is as black as night and just as poisonous, and Lucrezia is saying nothing, two tiny black ravens perched on either shoulder that nip at her perfectly-coiffed hair. Lara sits to my father’s right, the place of honor, and the chair she sits in is by far the most elaborate and appears to even overshadow the King’s. She watches all of us with a keen eye – she cares about us as the eldest child should, but there is cold ambition there that bites sharper than any knife and it would easily slide between bone and marrow to cut any of us down. I’ve no doubt that the poison in our father’s glass comes from her.

There are others at the table too, Raith and Skavis and Malvora alike, faces I knew and remembered. But there are strangers as well, people I have never recalled meeting. Some have the telling features of our family: the ebony hair, the pale eyes, the breathtaking beauty, and the haughtiness that runs in the blood of those with the Hunger. Some of them are chained, like the twin cousins, while others are as ghostly as I. Then there are others who should not have been sitting there, ones without the demon blood.

Across the table from my sister and our father is a thin man with untidy hair and serious dark eyes – he has the grim look of a wizard that is belied by the small smirk on his face. To his right is a mortal woman with a golden halo of hair who touches neither the wine nor the food, a faceless glowing angel standing directly behind her chair. Power radiates from both wizard and mortal, and it is enough for even my father and my elder sister to keep a wary eye on them. No ravens dare approach them to settle on their chairs and the blue ice that frosts up around the man’s chair is not the ice of Raith.

Another man with the wintery looks of a Raith sits to the wizard’s left – mayhap a brother of mine? I walk around to see his face more clearly, a ghostly apparition in the loud banquet hall, passing demon and mortal alike. He is clearly my father’s son, but there is something about him, something remarkably different than all of the others. He holds a half-full wineglass with one hand while his other clasps the hand of the striking white-haired girl who sits next to him. There is strength here – and love?

I bow my head. It is a vision, I know, but I am merely a ghost, a spectator. Still, I cannot help but have respect and fear for this brother that has yet to be born.

 _You do not belong in the heart of Raith’s ice_ , I think sadly. _So many of us do not._

I step away from the grand table of the White Hall. No, I have never belonged here. The ravens have seen to that – they warned me, but even that could not stop my inevitable fate. I was born a prince, but it is both blessing and curse. Because of the dreams, I would never receive the blood of a demon. Because of the dreams, I would be damned by the mortals.

But even when I open my eyes from the dream and see the scarlet flames dance across the sky, I know. There will be pain, there will be death, yet...

I am not afraid.

Soon, I can fly away.


	7. Tatiana

**| 6 |**

_Man was born free but everywhere he is in chains._

:::

The world is a dark, terrifying place and no matter what anyone says, it is always getting darker and a little bit scarier every day.

You would think that being a predator – that’s what the others call it anyway but I’ve never known it to be one way or the other – would alleviate my fears, but it doesn’t. I have told my sisters dozens of times over the decades that there is always something bigger, something more dangerous than us. France herself perches on the edge of war, teetering between the unhappy masses living in squalor and the monarchy. There is no place safe, neither in our world nor the world that the humans live in.

Things have been changing so rapidly, it makes one dizzy to try to keep up with any of it. The Wardens have been trying to stem the rapid control my family and the other Houses have in Europe, and they have been successful in leveling out the growth but...

They say I’m foolish to be fearful, that it is a sign of weakness. There is nothing _wrong_ with being wary of the world. There are things I have heard that would make even the staunchest of us weep. They pretend not to, pretend that there is nothing in the world that can harm us. But we can be killed as easily as anything. A well placed shot, a wickedly sharp blade, the death of our Hunger...any of these things can spell our ends. I believe we may have it even worse than the kine – our family stands as rulers of the White Court, and the other two Houses have no choice but to plot to bring our demise.

It was why I keep myself hidden away in the quiet countryside of France. Even if the country threatens to implode on itself, at least I am relatively safe away from the grand cities. I will not be like Tristan or Ursula or Matthias or Victor. There are... _reasons_ why they’re all gone, but I dare not say anything. If my suspicions are correct, if my lord father is truly cruel enough to kill any child that may be a threat to him...

No, no. I must stay silent. I must be an obedient daughter.

My life and everything depends on it.

:::

_South of Toulouse  
Languedoc Province, France_

Tatiana Raith woke from a nightmare with a startled gasp.

A light rain had passed through the province earlier that night, and had decorated her window with silver as gray morning light filtered in past heavy velvet drapes. The silken coverlets were a tangled mess, half of the sheets a puddle of fabric on the floor, and the oil lamps had burned out hours ago, leaving her room in gray shadow. She looked to her left and found that the bed was empty save for her, and let out a shaky sigh of relief – Father had taken his leave sometime while she was sleeping, a small favor even though she knew that he was probably walking around in the lower wings of the complex.

Tatiana grasped one of the remaining sheets and pulled it up over her bare chest, shivering. Every time Father visited her bedchambers, she would always tearfully argue that her Hunger was already docile enough, that he didn’t need to push her into submission. But the words always fell on deaf ears, and then his lips were against hers, and there was a devastating rush of craving that boiled her blood and sent her own Hunger screaming for release. It was always better not to think of him as Father then, but Lord Raith, king of the White Court. It hurt less that way.

She caught sight of golden-embroidered white silk on the floor, and quickly snatched the robe up, pulling it over trembling shoulders. The fire had long since died to smoldering embers, and the room was as icy as the far north – but it wasn’t from cold that she shivered.

The hairs on the back of her neck bristled, and she suddenly froze – was she being watched? It seemed as if Father had eyes all around Europe, reporting on his children’s whereabouts constantly. It would not be too far to stretch the imagination to think that perhaps there were numerous guards stationed around her suite. That terrified her, doing little to quell her already overactive paranoia.

Slowly she turned to look over her shoulder at the great wooden door leading to the gilded corridor. A handsome young man stood there, hands clasped in front of him politely. He nearly blended into the shadows in his stylish but simple black leather coat, breeches, and boots, his tricorne unadorned with the trinkets that marked the foppish lords in Toulouse. A sword belt hung loose at his waist. As always, whenever she saw him, she was always impressed with the fact that he looked better in black than the sterling white that was Raith custom.

“Cousin,” she murmured, a blush creeping up her neck as she tugged the robe closed. How long had he been standing there?

Luka, her aunt Lucrezia’s only child and barely an adult at eighteen, nodded a greeting at her, but kept silent. She expected that, and quietly made her way over to him. She tried to keep from shivering in the heavy silk brocade, but couldn’t quite suppress the tremors completely. She kept her eyes lowered, wondering what he must have thought about her, thought about all of the King’s daughters.

“Lara is visiting from Paris. Uncle says she wishes to see you.”

Tatiana’s eyes flew open. Lara – no, not _her_. She expected her older sister to be in France for several weeks now, but she had hoped that she was too busy fanning the flames of discord in Paris. There were kings and generals to be manipulated, an entire country on the brink of war – why would Lara bother to come to the quiet south of France?

Her dread was easily readable on her face; she saw Luka give her a sympathetic look. Luka wasn’t afraid of Lara, and as far as she knew, none of her sisters were either, even little Elisa. It was smart to be fearful of her though, Tatiana thought – she was Father’s right hand, his most loyal daughter and the most cunning, and she had nearly three hundred years of experience to draw on. Tatiana was absolutely _terrified_ of the shadow sister, the sister she only saw maybe once or twice a decade. She swallowed her fear as best she could, although her hands were still trembling at the mere thought of crossing her.

“Where?”

“The drawing room.”

Another chill went down Tatiana’s spine. The reception area was the parlour, but the seldom-used drawing room was sublevel. She had been forbidden to visit it before – why the sudden change of heart? She drew her robe closer, knuckles turning white, and nodded. Dread chewed her innards, and she tried to keep fear from causing her bones to shake.

She followed Luka down the richly-decorated corridors – the house was nearly empty as far as she was concerned. Father was still there unless he had gone to Toulouse after last night, and then there was only her, Luka, Lara, and a handful of servants who doubled as food. Her other sisters were in England along with her two twin cousins...at least, that was what she was told. It could have been a lie.

Paranoia clawed at her insides, and she wrung her hands nervously. Had she made a mistake? She knew she was not the smartest of the Raiths nor the most cunning, not even the most beautiful. There seemed little to argue with in the case her Father or the other Houses attempted to execute her. She was too meek, too willing to bow her head in acquiescence. But wasn’t that what a dutiful daughter and sister did?

Luka betrayed nothing in his expression or mannerisms – oh, how lovely that must have been. He was the youngest of them all, but to be so _sure_ of one’s self must have been such a blessing.

“So...” Her voice sounded small even to her own ears. “Father is still here, is he not?”

“The family heads of Malvora are in Marseille. He left soon after dawn.” Luka held open a door for her just before the main spiral staircase that descended into the foyer. Tatiana paused, glancing at him - there were dozens of doors she had passed through in this countryside manor, but there were three times as many she often ignored. This simple unadorned entrance was one of them, but even in the lamp-lit darkness that spilled out from the open door she could see a narrow, winding stone stairwell leading down into the bowels of the manor.

 _A secret passage and so close to my quarters_ , Tatiana thought as she walked into the stairwell, the cold dampness immediately clinging to her skin. She almost expected Luka to close the door behind her, leaving her in the gothic underground; she was more than relieved when he followed her, as silent as a ghost. “Do those in Malvora know of his visit?”

Luka shook his head, and she saw the golden light of the oil lamps catch against the dark ribbon that kept his hair tied back. “I suspect not. You know how our cousins can be.”

Tatiana nodded, even though she had never met any of those from House Malvora and had no real concern for the political rivalry between the three Houses (she had never come across anyone from House Skavis either, but suspected they operated along the same lines as their cousins). She continued to descend into the darkness, her trepidation mounting with each step. Luka was a reassuring presence behind her, but she doubted that he would do much in the case that Lara had something vile planned.

“Lara and Uncle are eyeing the colonies.”

“Oh?” It was odd for Luka to start a conversation, especially one that didn’t involve simple pleasantries. Tatiana bit her lip – maybe she wouldn’t be around long enough for it not to matter? “What use are they?”

“With the right persuasion, they could be very useful.” At Tatiana’s blank look, her cousin gave her one of his rare, faint smiles. “Imagine shaping a country’s foundation when it is still an impressionable babe – by the time it reaches maturity, it would be so woven with certain fundamental ideals, it would be a liable haven for those like us.”

“The colonies...” Tatiana did not much keep up with the politics of the kine – she had spent most of her life living in the French countryside, only travelling to London once every few years as was custom for a proper lady. But even she had heard about the war. “I hear they may seek independence.”

Luka nodded, his hand absently going to the hilt of his sword. “The eyes of many are on both the colonists and the crown.” He did not need to specify the ‘many’ – the supernatural world was always affected by the human world. Tatiana’s fingers clenched around the cloth of her robe. No wonder Lara and Father were so intent on those affairs – everyone and everything wanted to claim a stake in the battle.

 _But if the White Council finds out…_ , Tatiana thought and shivered. Wizards, she believed, were horribly strange anomalies – she never wished to face one.

The stairwell spiraled down to end at another door, twin to the one some landings above, and Luka pulled out an ornate key that hung from a chain around his neck. Snapping the chain, he twisted the key in the lock and the door swung open with hardly a noise – was it used often? The idea that there was a constant stream of people going through the manor without her knowledge unsettled her – that was the way of spies and thieves and every sort of creature in between.

 _A kine assassin I could handle_ , she thought as she stepped into the room beyond. _But what if it was something otherwordly?_

The windowless room she walked into was strangely ornate one, decorated in crimsons and deep greens and golds. It was around half the length of the ballroom upstairs, but the walls themselves were nearly as high. Marble sconces circled the room, firelight flickering against the walls and sending shadows dancing across the ceiling and lush Oriental-style carpets underfoot. The room smelled of rich smoke and mulled wine and the tang of fresh paint, together not quite an unpleasant aroma.

Along the stone walls, there were a series of eight grand portraits and a space between the first and second where another should have hung. The women in the portraits seemed only somewhat familiar, and their fashions slowly aged as Tatiana’s gaze traveled down the line. Tatiana had never seen such paintings up close before. She remembered that Lara and Natalia and a long-dead brother had lived during the rush of the Renaissance and had probably known famous painters intimately, but Tatiana herself so often kept herself shielded from the world, such works of art were lost to her.

Luka shut the door behind them and Tatiana was so enraptured with the luxurious paintings on the wall that she hadn’t even realized that they weren’t the only ones in the room. A tall, beautiful woman (though not quite as tall nor quite as beautiful as Natalia) stood by the first portrait of someone named Emilia, examining it with an unreadable expression on her face. Her Brunswick gown was the color of frost and severe in its cut, but it did little to take away from her beauty - its austerity seemed to enhance her milk-pale skin and glossy dark hair.

Tatiana froze where she stood.

Luka had no such qualms, quietly making his way past her and approaching Tatiana’s long-estranged older sister. “Lara.”

The stranger (for after all of these years, that was what she was to Tatiana) turned and the fire from the sconces gleamed in eyes the same blue shade as her gown. A smile befitting a lioness crept across her features as she took Luka’s hands in her own and kissed his cheek in greeting. “Dear cousin. It has been too long.”

 _Why is he not frightened?_ Tatiana fretted from where she still stood beyond the closed door. _She is dangerous, the most dangerous of us all. And what does she want of me? Have I not spent my time quietly enough here in southern France?_ She quickly noticed that Lara had turned that ethereal gaze onto her, and her cheeks burned pink. She lowered herself in a quick curtsy, her legs trembling. “Sister.” Her voice was softer than she intended.

_I am not as weak as they whisper, please don’t think ill of me._

Lara laughed, a rich, throaty sound that kept Tatiana’s eyes lowered to the ground. “My sweet little sister, you have _grown_.” She heard a rustling of cloth and then felt a cold hand tilt her chin upwards. “Still unbearably shy, Tatiana? You have no reason to be bashful around me.” Tatiana slowly lifted her eyes to meet her older sister’s gaze, and saw that same beatific smile that she had given Luka. A few paces behind, Luka stood in a soldier’s stance, quietly waiting for the tête-à-tête to end.

Lara took a step back as Tatiana unsteadily rose to her feet. She knew she was blushing horribly, but could do nothing about that except hope that perhaps Lara would believe it was a trick of the light. In the silence, her heart only raced faster. Quickly, she looked around, desperate for anything to latch onto. “I was unaware this room existed. Is it new?”

Did the silence after her question mean disapproval? Was it just her imagination or did Lara narrow her eyes at her? _A folly_ , Tatiana nearly despaired before Lara shook her head. “It has been here since the manor’s foundation was built decades ago. Papa had a taste for Baroque design at the time – not particularly what I would have chosen, but functional nonetheless.” She shrugged gracefully. “As it stands, he does not advertise the room.”

Tatiana paled. “I...I would hate to displease Father if I am not to be here.”

Lara laughed again. “Our father has more important matters to attend to than scold a daughter for exploring her own manor.”

 _My own...?_ Well, Tatiana supposed it was true enough. Her sisters and cousins rarely came to visit – she was happy enough with a houseful of servants and perhaps a young buck of noble blood to keep her bed warm at night. “Yes, well...” She still fumbled for words, grasping onto the only thing that seemed logical. “The pictures are lovely.”

She saw Luka’s lips quirk upwards in a brief smile as Lara turned towards the portraits. “They are, aren’t they? You do know who these does are, don’t you, sweet sister?”

 _Victims? Lovers? Enemies?_ Tatiana was at a loss and bit her bottom lip. None had the look of a Raith, but there seemed to be _something_ familiar about a few of the pictures. The empty space between the first and third picture was also disturbing for a reason she could not say.

After a moment, she shook her head. “No. I’m sorry.”

Lara raised one dark brow silently and Tatiana flushed. _I should look harder._ She took a few steps towards the closest portrait, wishing that she didn’t feel Lara’s gaze burning into the back of her neck. The woman in the picture was small and sweet-looking, with a head full of silver-blond ringlets and kind eyes the color of amber. She wore a gown of exquisite detail that would not have been out of fashion some one hundred years ago – perhaps she had been a noblewoman of some sort?

There was something familiar about her face though. It reminded her of porcelain, dainty and easily shattered. Tatiana knew she had seen something similar before, but the coloring was wrong...

Her eyes widened. “Felicia,” she breathed.

She felt Lara’s presence at her side. “Her mother, to be exact." She nodded at the other portraits. "And yours. And mine. I suppose it can be forgiven that you didn’t recognize them straight away – four of them are mothers to dead children.”

 _All of them._ Tatiana stared up at the eight faces in the portraits, finally seeing what was so strangely familiar about half of them. There were bits and pieces of her siblings in these faces – the tilt of a smile, the shape of the eyes, the stubbornness set in the jaw. While the Raith coloring and beauty had claimed them all, there were still hints of their mothers in all of them.

Tatiana found herself moving almost in a dreamlike state towards the second-to-last portrait along the wall, the portrait of a comely young woman in a deep blue riding habit. A small plaque beneath the portrait read OKSANA SOLOVYOV. She had a playful, friendly look in her eyes, one that Tatiana had never seen while peering into a looking glass. _Is this my mother_? She could barely see the resemblance.

Slowly, she glanced back at Lara who seemed to be waiting for a reaction. _Should I be surprised? Sad? What does she want me to do?_ She cleared her throat. “They are exquisite work. But a portrait is missing.”

Lara glanced over her shoulder at the missing painting. “Mmm, yes. That _is_ a mystery. No one is quite clear why Natalia’s mother is missing, and it seemed like a rather moot point to bring up to our father.”

 _Poor Natalia. I wonder if she knows about this room._ She looked back over at Luka, who still stood silently in the far side of the room. _Perhaps Lucrezia and Marsilio have rooms like these too. If not, I hope Luka doesn’t feel too poorly about this._ She blushed again, lowering her head. She shouldn’t be thinking these things – she would have to be careful around Father, make sure that he never heard her speaking of this room of paintings.

“Do you know why I wanted to see you?”

 _You want something from me, I know it. I feel it in my bones._ Tatiana shook her head. “No, sister.”

“You know of the unrest in Paris?”

“Yes, of course.”

“It is no mere coincidence, although I can’t say that we’ve had much of a hand in it.” We – meaning Lara and their father. “But it seems our time here is drawing to a close for a moment. There are more opportunities for herding kine across the ocean... _if_ the colonists succeed.” Tatiana dared a look at her sister, but Lara was no longer looking at her. She had returned to the first portrait, and that same inscrutable mask had replaced the smile from before.

 _She is planning something with Father, Luka said so._ Should she be silent? It would be the wiser course perhaps. Why would Lara bring her here to tell her of these plans anyway? Tatiana had proved she had no taste for schemes or words or backstabbing – it had never been her forte. And Lara...Lara herself was rumored to have deepened the rift between a long dead king and the Church. What good was a suckling kitten compared to a panther?

“Will go you then? To the colonies? By yourself?” Tatiana cursed the questions the moment they tumbled from her lips. It was a foolhardy risk. The White Council would see it immediately.

Lara’s laugh was quiet and smooth as velvet. “No, of course not. I have familial duties here to attend to.”

 _A panther sharpening its claws..._ Tatiana swallowed. “Father then?”

Lara shook her head.

Tatiana did not pride herself on her ability to put schemes together. Most of her family left her out of their games and tricks, and she was more than thankful for that. But she should have known – she should have seen it long ago and prepared herself for this. How foolish she was to think that just because she sat in the manor by herself, away from the conflicts of the humans, that she had been forgotten. The paintings on the wall were testimony to that – and a warning. Eight portraits, nine children, only five still living.

Fear nearly choked her, its icy grip clamping down over her heart and her thoughts. “You want... _me_?”

“I personally would not have you anywhere near this,” Lara replied with a faint wave of her hand. “I love you dearly little Tanya, but you are a coward at heart and ill-equipped for this at best.” Her lips pressed into a thin line - she was irritated. Had it all been a show? “But Uncle Marsilio believes that because of your reclusiveness, you will act as our best spy. A foolish notion, but our father supports it.”

 _Father...why...why wouldn’t he tell me?_ Tatiana felt the bitter sensation of panic begin to grip the edge of her thoughts. _He could have said...he means to send me to the Americas, to the colonies. But there is war there! What am I supposed to do in a place of war? A new country, by myself..._ “I-I can’t. Lara, I _can’t_ do this.”

Lara only lifted her shoulders in a graceful, curt shrug. Her demeanor had changed so quickly. “It is not my decision, Tanya.”

 _Empty night..._ “Marsilio _must_ know that I cannot do this. Please. Is there anything, anything at all that you can do to convince Father that...?”

“It is not _my_ decision.”

There was a finality in her words that felt like manacles around Tatiana’s wrists and ankles. Lara may have seen her as weak, but at least she cared enough about her to not want to throw her into the den. Marsilio had ruined everything. Why would he suggest such a thing? The White Council would surely find her out and kill her.

Any conviction she had about being brave in Lara’s eyes melted away and she collapsed on the floor, face buried in her hands as she began to sob.

Empty night. Oh, _empty night_.

:::

The ship creaks and moans beneath me, but even the gentle rock of the decks cannot lull me into sleep.

When the plans were first unraveled, it was agreed that at least Luka would accompany me to the colonies. It was a small token, a tiny bit of protection in a chaotic and strange new world. But at the last minute, the other two Houses erupted in minor squabbles that kept my dear cousin in Europe to oversee the reconnaissance - no one is better than Luka in that. Lara was unhappy with the change, but I suspect she would dare not question Father.

I do not know what my sisters will think of me. Natalia may have sympathy, but Felicia is always so wrapped up in her own little world that she scarcely sees what’s in front of her. I can never tell with Elisa - her heart is stony and unreadable.

I pray that I may return home. But I know I cannot disappoint Father. If I fail...if I fail...

The nightmares keep me awake. I know what awaits for me. There is no chance for me to succeed. I have been set up to lose my life. Everyone...everyone knows that I am the weakest Raith child. My sisters. My father. My uncle.

They are against me, and I was foolish to think otherwise.

I hate them all.


	8. Interlude

  
**Interlude**  
 **The Soldier**

:::

  
Even amongst the Raiths, Luka is an anomaly.

Lucrezia never tells any of the younger ones about what poor buck sired the newest arrival (considering her tastes, it must be a duke or prince or some other member of European royalty); they all suspect that Lord Raith knows and is displeased. The tension in the air during that time is thick enough to choke on and for the first time, some of them see the barest traces of fear and uncertainty in Lucrezia’s eyes. Is it for her unborn child? For herself? She avoids him as often as possible and nearly fades into the shadows during those long, cold months.

Luka is born during the darkest part of the night, in the deepest part of winter. He doesn’t cry when he is born and in the years to come, he is so unnaturally silent that some of the servants believe the poor boy to be dumb. But it is not just his voice that seems to have been scared away – so often he appears in rooms as silent as a ghost that the servants take to putting a small bell around his wrist to alert them to his approach. The tactic lasts for several months until Lucrezia, furious that they’ve collared her son like some sort of _pet_ , devours at least two of the servants. From then on, they make their peace with having the ghost son wander around the house.

The unsettling thing is that the boy is _smart_. He is a voracious reader and his rooms across Europe are full of books of philosophy and history and war. When he does speak, it is always with a matter-of-fact wisdom that often renders the kine speechless. It is strange, yes, that he so rarely speaks, but perhaps it is the manic curse of a genius.

Time passes.

The older cousins mostly treat Luka with a mild curiosity if they don’t outright ignore him. Elisa is only a handful of years older than him so the two spend hours and days and weeks together in childhood playfulness – they grow to be friends, rivals, playmates, trusted companions. Slowly, the littlest Raith daughter manages to get Luka to speak more, to assert himself more. But the quietness that many mistook for bashfulness only shapes itself with steel – there is knowledge behind the dark-eyed stare and a slow-burning insightfulness that allows him to see beyond mundane logic.

It is this talent that brings him to the attention of his lord uncle when the boy, hardly more than eight at the time, quietly unravels a plot brewing in the Skavis court. To be sure, he is completely unaware of the supernatural side of his family but he sees and hears something that isn’t quite right, and it dissolves from there.

Luka knows that there is something different about his family from a very young age. He is a very astute child and even though Elisa rebukes him for noticing that his two uncles and his mother and his cousins _never aged_ , he is never swayed from his theory. So he stays and watches.

At several days shy of fourteen, he is the youngest of them to awaken his Hunger. But while his cousins remember the hours and days and years afterward as confusing and terrifying and horribly painful, Luka takes all of it in stride and with aplomb. _Everything makes more sense now_ , he says when Natalia or Madrigal or Felicia ask him, and perhaps for him, this is the life he is best suited for.

Unlike his relatives, he feeds discriminately and only when necessary – he is often teased by the twins who are known for their wild, arbitrary tastes. Luka is a ghost before anything else, a shadow and a soldier. He doesn’t see the need to feed his Hunger for the sheer sake of _feeding_ it nor does he see the point in starving it to death. The does are chosen with care, and he never feeds deeply enough to kill...

But Luka _is_ a soldier. Lara is the first to notice, and the first to suggest to her lord father to use his talents in ways that will benefit their family and the Houses. Luka finds himself immersed in revolutions and wars, a ghost that never truly chooses a side and creates legends on all sides of blood-soaked battlefields. He realizes that he fits here more than in the tangled games of the Houses, and he stands by generals and commanders, captains and lieutenants. He is familiar with bayonets and swords, with crossbows and grenades and military-issued handguns.

And even though he’s a soldier, it is his keen eye that makes him both threat to the other Houses and the Raiths’ silent weapon.

He follows the politics of the kine and burrows into the highest tiers of government and with whispered suggestions, laced with the evocative lull of the Hunger, he creates a tower of cards at the behest of his eldest cousin and his lord uncle. He sups with Napoleon, gives diplomatic advice to Lincoln, consorts with Romanov and Kissinger. He sheds aliases as quickly as some shed outerwear, disappearing into the mists of history with chaos running rampant behind him. He is as comfortable in the trenches or perched atop a balcony with a sniper rifle as he is mingling with dignitaries and wrangling their lies and secrets out of them.

He knows he is more of a piece than a player, and he is fine with that. He’d rather not climb the rungs that would put him at odds with his relatives, always looking for the metaphorical knife that would slice his neck open from ear to ear.

He is a soldier, first and foremost, and Lara’s most dangerous, elusive weapon.


	9. Felicia

**| 7 |**

_Happiness is not the ideal of reason but of imagination._

:::

Around the turn of the century, when the industrial revolution was just beginning to gather speed under the eager eyes of the kine in England and the kingdoms of many other European nations were beginning to falter under their own grandeur, my lord father made the decision, none too gently, to set his sights on the blooming United States of America.

 _I_ was none too pleased with the idea.

Still, I persuaded Lara to let me stay across the ocean for some period yet. Father, of course, was far too busy becoming a conqueror in his own right, and I reminded my eldest sister that the British Empire was still such a reliably ally, her domain spreading to all corners of the world. We helped shape the illustrious power, I said, it was only natural that we keep close watch on it (it was argued, though I admit I listened with a tiresome ear, that the willful colonists that spawned from that empire were also noteworthy to watch).

It scarcely matters to me. The pomp and decorum of England and its far-flung colonies are far more intriguing than the confusion of a still fledgling country leagues and leagues away. Perhaps even Father saw wisdom in this - his battlefield is with governors and presidents, his weapons words of persuasion, but he makes sure to keep the youngest far away from these matters. Elisa remains in England while Charlotte is under the care of Natalia in Maryland. Little Isabella, scarcely out of swaddling clothes, is tucked away with her mother in some frigid country estate – I never find it necessary to concern myself with siblings until after their Hunger awakens.

It is only then that they become dangerous.

I have heard of stories, yes, about two brothers who were alive before me. But they are inconsequential, especially since I have known three more siblings to have died in my lifetime. Mourning is futile – I’ve come to believe Ursula and Victor and Tristan and Tatiana brought their deaths upon themselves, Ursula for her ambition, Tatiana for her cowardice, and Victor for the sheer misfortune of being born male (and who knows of Tristan?). If I began to feel grief for any and all of my siblings, I would eventually be consumed and weakened by it. To be weak is to die and I intend to live.

Of course, I care deeply for the sisters that live, but one must always be careful of treachery. We Raiths thrive on it. Though I have yet to see it my lifetime, I know it is still there. One must show a united front to our enemies, the other Houses that have been striving to lead the Court for centuries now. Father is always one step ahead of them though and even in the rare instances that he misses something, Marsilio or Lucrezia or Lara are always there to kill a threat before it blossoms.

And what of me? I admit that I find the games tedious at best. The kine are more interesting than politics – there is a thrill to use blackmail and deceit on ones who count their lives in decades rather than centuries. They are desperate, strange creatures, ripe for the taking. Those with power are fun to prey upon, but once the thrill of the chase is gone, what use is any of it? I fail to see Madeline’s desire to run through lovers with scarcely a glance or Lara’s proclivity to damage their minds in warped games of chess. One must be balanced.

It is why I stole away to the British colonies in India, far away from the backstabbing of the Houses, near an entire world away from Father. His clandestine meetings into my bedchambers were worrisome, but something had to be suffered to remain in his good graces. Here in the stifling heat and amongst the indigenous peoples of a strange land, I can keep safe away from his overwhelming presence while still remaining a good child.

It doesn't matter, I think. All of us live in the shadow of the perfect eldest child and no matter how much I run to keep up, Father has had his favorite for ages and that will _never_ change.

The Jade Court lurks just beyond the borders of India, into the mountains of the Orient. Lucrezia – or rather, Father - has entrusted me with finding a secret they keep hidden. Secrets are exciting to obtain, but amongst other creatures such as myself, some of the delight wanes.

To go through the kine to reach them though, ah – now there is where pleasure can be found.

:::

_The Governor’s Palace_   
_Bombay_ _, India_

The scorching heat of late spring had already reached its peak in the city even late into the evening, and no amount of preparation could ward off the rising temperatures near the harbor. Red dust along the roads flared up in miniature whirlwinds as palanquins were carried by on the dark shoulders of slaves and as yapping scrawny black dogs ran circles around the legs of vendors shouting their wares. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and salt, dung and perfume, exotic fruits and the aroma of steamed fish fresh from the harbor.

In the governor’s palace, the scorching dying rays of the sun beat down on the top of a lady’s lace parasol, but she scarcely felt it. She sat primly in one of the wrought-iron chaise lounges that decorated the terrace, twirling her umbrella against the unrelenting glare of red sunlight. She was extraordinarily beautiful if remarkably tiny, her skin seemingly paler than snow and her hair dark enough to swallow every beam of light it caught. Her corkscrew curls bobbed as she tilted her head to the side, gazing amusedly at the two young men sitting opposite of her - other than the three of them, the terrace was completely vacant.

 _Well, “young” is a bit of an understatement,_ she thought amusedly. “Are you two fighting again?” she asked, her voice as high and clear as a bell. “I dare say that this isn’t really the weather for deep-set ire.” She reached for a glass of lemonade from the table next to her, the ice in the glass long since melted. Bringing the glass to her lips, she smiled sweetly before adding, “I suppose this has _nothing_ to do with Kemmler?”

The taller of the two men, a handsome blond dressed in British regimentals with a sheathed talwar hanging from his hip, gave her a swift, wolfish smile. He was sitting with casual disregard in one of the chairs, eyes closed against the hot dark glow of the evening. “Kemmler is missing today.” He spoke with an accent not _quite_ similar to hers and opened one eye to glance at his comrade. “Hopefully.”

The other man, shorter and more muscular and a bit rougher around the edges, snorted. “Don’t see how that concerns either of you.” He looked miserable in the oppressive heat and humidity, beads of sweat trickling down from his thick mop of dark hair. Even so, he was less formally dressed than either the young woman or the other man, leaning against the wall farthest away from the sun’s rays. “I take it that isn’t why you’ve called us, Miss Raith.”

Felicia Raith simpered, taking a sip of the lemonade and briefly savoring the bittersweet taste. She so rarely had _interesting_ visitors in Bombay, it was a wonder why she always remained so keen on visiting. Most of her family had already departed Europe years ago, staking claims along with several other supernatural factions in the United States of America. It was a trifle dull for her - politics were only so interesting before one became dulled by the amount of _talking_ done. And what was truly the pleasure in finding comfort in that young country when Europe still had its own grand monarchies to consort with?

Besides, India had its own problems that needed to be handled.

As the sun vanished behind the tangled branches of the teak trees, Felicia closed her umbrella - the sun hadn’t truly been a bother - and stood, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles in her lavender empire-style dress. Even standing, she didn’t quite come up to the shorter man’s chin, let alone the blond man’s shoulder. It bothered her not a whit. She bent over to scoop up a small lacy reticule from the table, very much aware of the décolletage she was displaying. Glancing up beneath her lashes, she saw that the shorter man was giving her a disapproving look and the blond man was smirking despite still not having opened his eyes.

 _But you shall look before the night ends, my dear_ , she mused before straightening. “Gentlemen, if you would.”

She passed by both of them in a whirl of a floral perfume, disappearing into the cooler shadows of the palace. She heard voices coming from the lower landing, but that wasn’t her intended destination. Father had sent her to India with one small request, and she’d be damned if she didn’t honor it. She felt rather than saw the two men follow her through the palace and down a flight of stairs that led away from the reception area below.

 _Shan’t get little Lara’s hands dirty, of course not_ , she thought with a vague sense of annoyance. Looking back over her shoulder, she hid her displeasure with a dimpled smile. “I never did ask how life has been treating the White Council lately, Wizard McCoy. Would you care to satisfy a lady’s curiosity?”

The shorter man grunted. “Never took a shine to satisfying anything of the White Court’s.”

Felicia pouted. “It was a simple question. One must be kind to potential allies.”

“You’ll do better not hiding behind masks of politeness,” the blonde man drawled with a small smile. “McCoy prefers obstinate forthrightness over tact.”

“Oh?” She paused at a door just long enough to pull an ornate key from the reticule. Twisting it into the lock, she gave McCoy a flirtatious smile. “I can be very forthright if you’d like.”

“There aren’t enough words in the English language to convey my lack of interest, missy,” came the gruff reply. Felicia only rolled her eyes, swinging the door open to emit them into the gardens of the palace. Truly told, to call them actual gardens was a stretch - the delicate English rosebushes that had been brought by the governor’s sister had withered in the harsh Indian climate, leaving behind only thistles and cockscombs and the buds of pagoda flowers. The sunken garden was surrounded by an eight-foot-high stone wall that rose to two feet above ground level and topped by iron-wrought trellises, the view from the surrounding roads obstructed by thick vines twisted amongst the crossbars of the iron.

She cautiously stepped over the uneven ground, her skirts gathered in her hands. _It would be much better not to pretend_ , she thought. The ground truly gave her no trouble, but there were always appearances to be considered. She pursed her lips thoughtfully as they continued further away from the governor’s palace. “Sirs, how well do you know the Jade Court?”

The blond man shrugged. “I’ve come across them every so often. We’ve...had differing opinions about a number of matters.”

“I’m sure you have. Wizard?”

“Often enough to know not to cross them.” He gave her a speculative frown, and Felicia only blinked at him innocently. _This_ was why she didn’t care for wizards - they often, too often, seemed to jump hurdles in their conclusions. And this one...this one she did not care for at all. Still, she could hardly be picky when it came to leading wizards and demons about in circles.

She stopped at the far end of the garden as the red-violet light of sunset disappeared into a humid blue twilight. “Even if, by chance, they were helpful in your search?”

McCoy frowned, brow furrowing. “You saying that the Jade Court knows where Kemmler’s hiding?”

“Wizard, I have no need to run games about you,” she replied with an exasperated sigh. “Treachery is for my siblings and my cousins. At the moment, I am only acting as a messenger, much as it pains me to admit.” She held out her hands, palms up, in a show of acquiescence. “You seek Kemmler, the Jade Court can be of assistance, and I am your only link between the European and Oriental factions of our worlds.”

She saw the blond man’s brief smirk in the fading light and McCoy snorted. “Felicia Raith, you are the daughter of the king of the White Court. Lying is as much your nature as magic is mine.”

Felicia frowned. _An irritating lot, these wizards. And not a single one knows how to act respectfully._ “If I am as untrustworthy as you claim, then why have you travelled here all the way from wherever you wizards hide?”

She watched as the buck sighed, lazily shifting his weight. He hadn’t brought a staff with him nor any other sort of weapon yet she was still wary of him. Her contacts informed her of the power the unimpressive-looking man wielded. “Ma’am, with all due respect, when it comes to keeping an eye on the affairs of the White Court on the borders of their domain, especially when it pertains to someone as dangerous as Kemmler, we’d rather not take it for face value.” He glanced askance at the taller man who only shrugged.

“You might make more leeway if you were to adhere to...social conventions.”

Felicia beamed, pale eyes glittering in the falling evening. “Yes. Precisely.” She turned her back on both men and reached into her reticule, pulling out a small item wrapped in an embroidered handkerchief. Unfolding it revealed a dagger no bigger than her hand, plainly made with no extravagant embellishments. Quietly tucking the handkerchief back into her reticule, she then handed the dagger to the blond man (surely the wizards would overreact if it glimmered in his direction). “I need a circle.”

The blond looked at the dagger and then back at her. “You’ll forgive me for saying that this is _not_ a circle,” he said with a note of amusement in his voice.

Felicia narrowed her eyes – nor could she stand for insubordination unless it involved less dirt and more tangled bedsheets, and that she still did not have enough of from him. Perhaps later, when this mess was dealt with and she could retreat back to the cool abode of the palace. “Nor shall I ask again.”

He chuckled and dropped low to his knee, drawing a circle in the dry red dirt, barely big enough even for Felicia herself to stand in. McCoy crossed his arms, watching both mercenary and vampire with too keen an eye. She frowned prettily at him. It really _was_ a pity that he was so rigid in his stance – despite multiple encounters with him, she had yet to work past his defenses. None of her whims could make him succumb and, as she had found out on one occasion, it would have been futile to attempt otherwise – the fool wizard was protected by the even stronger shield of true love.

 _And the greatest of these..._ , Felicia thought to herself, remembering the words echoed by her father and Lucrezia and Marsilio over the decades. She reached into the small bag again, pulling out a scrap of paper with something written in an elegant hand folded within. With a dimpled smile, she handed it to McCoy. _I hope the wretched doe dies on you._

McCoy unfolded the piece of paper. “A Wyldfae?”

Felicia drew the string of the reticule, daintily closing it tight. “It will serve your purpose, shall it not? The little folk are quite helpful when it comes to small tasks. Kemmler is here - the stench of necromancy spreads across India - and the Jade Court wishes him gone. Unfortunately...” here, she pretended sadness, her lovely features suddenly crestfallen, “...my father is so _very_ far away. He would be _much_ indebted to the White Council if they happen to rid him of the German monster.”

The blond man flipped the knife absently in his hand. “Clever ruse.”

McCoy harrumphed. “I know. It reeks of the eldest daughter.”

Felicia looked between both of them and sighed in annoyance. “Far be it for me to _inquire_ as to your rudeness, but my sister...”

“Your sister is a clever bitch.” He held up his hand before Felicia could protest, and she seethed. “No doubt Kemmler is in India - we have _that_ from more than one source. The Jade Court would of course be wary of any powerful necromancer infringing on their borders and would rather the matter be solved by...outside forces. Don’t matter much to them so long as their territory is safe.”

Felicia crossed her arms. “Oh, so you believe yourself to have figured it out?”

McCoy and the blond man exchanged looks and the latter rapped his fingers against the hilt of the talwar. “Your cousin, the one currently befriending Monroe and interfering with foreign policy, is very clever and perhaps in a few more decades he’ll be better at duplicity amongst his peers. You as well - it’s a trait that usually comes along in your fourth century if you weren’t born with it.” He smiled at her and she felt her fists clinch at her sides - under any other and more sultry circumstances, she would have revelled in that smile. Now she wanted to leave bruises.

“It is very mean of both of you!” Felicia muttered, wondering what Luka had done incorrectly.

“Nothing more hurtful than God’s given truth,” the blond man drawled with a small laugh. McCoy tucked the piece of paper into his pocket.

“The White Court wants the Council to do its work for them, gain a boon from the Jade Court, and hope the necromancer takes a few Wardens down in the process of his own death.” McCoy smiled - or at least he bared his teeth in a fearsome look that made Felicia hesitate. “Miss Raith, as long as we are passing along messages, tell your father it was a nice try but next time he can get off his _own_ ass and kill Kemmler. I’m sure there’ll be time for it. He can even wear a nice hat for the occasion.”

 _Impudent buck!_ She took a step forward but stopped once she found the wide end of the talwar sitting under her chin. She turned wide eyes to the blond man and saw him regarding with lazy disinterest. “But- but I am _paying_ you.”

“To make sure this exchange goes smoothly. Hate to send this all end poorly - word may get around that I am not very adept at my job.”

Felicia opened her mouth to protest...and close it again. Those _had_ been her words when she had first come across the infamous mercenary, but perhaps she had been more enthralled by his presence than she had intended. Pawns were well and good, but dark knights were even more intriguing - and perhaps she had allowed her own Hunger to speak more than her good sense.

Well this was just damnable.

Rearranging her composure, she glared at both of them. “I hope you are pleased. You’ve unravelled a mystery - I dare say there is not much keeping you here in Bombay.”

McCoy shook his head. “Well, missy, your father got one thing right - Kemmler is a pain and a threat to more than just the vampire courts and the Council.” He nodded at the mercenary, who lowered the talwar but did not replace it in its scabbard. “Suppose you couldn’t be convinced...”

The blond man laughed shortly. “For the time, I’d rather not cross swords with one looking to create the Darkhallow.”

 _The Darkhallow...?_ Even at the words, Felicia felt a chill dance across her skin and she barely suppressed a shiver. There were always so many stories from when she was younger and still so very naive about the strange new world she lived in - the power of names alone could bring down empires, bend powerful creatures to one’s will. _That_ name did nothing but inspire dread in the pit of her stomach, and she felt her Hunger growl unsettling against her temples.

Shaking her head and letting her curls bounce against her cheeks, Felicia gathered her skirts into her hands again. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I am _sure_ you have business to conduct elsewhere. Your presence is no longer welcomed in the governor’s palace.” Without waiting for their reply, she silently stormed off through the muggy black night, biting back rage and frustration that was eagerly fed upon by the Hunger.

How much she would have wanted to rob McCoy and any of his Warden fools of their senses! But no - she instead had to be made a fool of because of circumstances beyond her control. Once she saw her dear cousin again, she would _certainly_ let him know of his folly. How could he have been so blind? And surely this failure would be enough to draw her away from her own territories and back once again to her father’s side.

 _None of this is fair_ , she seethed darkly as she retreated up the stairs, very aware that she was being followed. _Why would Luka...and then the stupid mercenary...!_ Speaking of, she whirled around the moment she was several paces down a darkened hallway, hearing the jubilant laughter and giddy conversation below. Just beyond the shadows, she saw the mercenary at the head of the stairs, watching her with maddening amusement. “I said you were no longer welcomed here. Are you deaf, sir?”

“I was wondering the same of you.”

Felicia glowered at him. “I _do_ wish you’d stop speaking.” It was why she despised the games - she did not take kindly to losing, and would rather avoid the mere prospect of it in the first place. And now that she had lost so very decidedly against the Council...if Father was furious enough, she would surely not live long enough to see the other consequences of her mistake. “Why not scurry along after your little comrade?”

“Comrades - that’s a strong word.” He took a step towards her, but Felicia’s icy glare kept him from coming closer.

“I would have you and take your mind,” she hissed.

“You can’t.”

Another damnable fact, and not for lack of trying. She was also very sure that he would break her neck before she could break his...but at least she could potentially recover from it if she found another doe or buck in time. If and perhaps. Damn, damn, _damn_.

However it did not much matter at all what she wanted the moment his lips found hers in the darkness - by then, her mind was occupied by much different, more carnal ideas. And if the music and laughter faltered below from her incessant cries of pleasure - well, what did she care about their abused constitutions?

They were only food.

 :::

The monsoon season arrived.

I left India sometime before the worst of it came and from what I heard, the Wardens killed Kemmler sometime afterwards. I'm delighted that he didn’t _stay_ dead - although we never gained the favor of the Jade Court, I smile at the thought that McCoy and his strange lackeys had been unable to stop the necromancer. Perhaps there was _something_ to be obtained from that frustrating debacle.

The mercenary disappeared soon afterwards, and I have not attempted to look for him. Such trifles are momentary at the least and he proved to be much less a gentleman than I would have imagined. There are too many people who forget even the simplest of common courtesies and while such a thing could be forgiven behind closed doors, I do not take kindly to public humiliation. Every measly dog has a day of its own and so does everyone receive their comeuppance.

Strangely, Luka admitted to never knowing the buck. Secretive he can be, but cruel he is not.

There are...other options, but to put such harshness upon my father...

The world is a treacherous place and grows colder every day. If I start to mistrust even my father or my sisters, where is my happiness? No, I cannot ever believe it.

I won't.


	10. Charlotte

**| 8 |**

_A house divided against itself cannot stand._

:::

I do believe that I am the most fortunate of all my sisters.

Over the years, I’ve watched them all and there’s a strange melancholy about them that I myself only discovered after I awakened an inner hunger in my soul. For awhile, I think I may have been just like them – there is something very sad about our immortality and the loneliness that comes with it. Some ignorant trollop may _claim_ that such a life is the most wonderful thing, but they honestly know _nothing_.

We live on pleasure and indulgence and even here in the beautiful countryside of Georgia, it can grow bothersome. Imagine us – beautiful and rich, with every known luxury at our fingertips and immortality burning blue on the horizon – why, it would be enough to make any doe or buck giddy with joy. But we are unfortunate for the very thing that Papa warns us about.

Love.

Papa has made sure that we know the words written in one of St. Paul’s many epistles – love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things, never failing. But it’s our bane and even if it is the greatest of all things, our nature makes us victim to it. With that too is paranoia - our family is powerful, but we have enemies even amongst relatives. Papa always remains one step ahead of them, but one day, I truly fear someone will be smarter, faster, more lethal.

I hardly know myself if any of my sisters have fallen in love before. They don’t speak of it, not to me, not to anyone. We’re all of us royalty in our world but without love, it isn’t much good. For decades, I believed our existence to be horribly cursed. Elisa says it’s foolish of me to expect our lives to be as gilded as they would appear to others and I’m sure Lara thinks it is my greatest weakness (but then, sometimes I think I am the only one of my sisters that can make her genuinely smile). Bella teases with her infectious laughter; Felicia scoffs and pretends that I will eventually grow out of my madness.

But – and I cannot tell any of my sisters this – it is no longer a madness.

The United States of America prospers on the backs of slaves, and my dear family always keeps up with the times. While we have manors and houses across the eastern coast of the United States - both in the north and the south - I usually keep to the manor just outside the city of Savannah. We have no plantation (after centuries of interest, Papa has found other ways to keep our family sickeningly wealthy), but we never lack slaves, never lack food. Our gift - if you can call it that - does not apply just to the negroes though, and therefore our manor’s staff is a dizzying mixture of blacks and whites and any of those in between. It was controversial...but Papa made me take care of that.

So my life existed, and I declare that it was hardly the utopia you, dear reader, may have believed it to be. Beauty, wealth, immortality - chains, all of them.

And then, on a day I scarcely remember, William arrived at the manor, fresh from a batch of other slaves from Florida. It’s shameful to admit that I don’t remember that day more clearly. I only noticed the tall, handsome young man in passing and none of my sisters took an interest in him that I know of - Papa was and is still very stern regarding how the family must appear to the kine. We must never take a special interest in one - there lies the way of danger.

William, though, was different. For the first time since the turn of the century, my Hunger and I were in agreement with our desires. Eventually, inevitably, I fell in love. And when it became clear that Will reciprocated my feelings, there was only one thing to do.

 _This_ way lays madness.

:::

  _Montblanc Manor_  
 _Savannah_ _, Georgia, United States_

The spring before the war touched Savannah was long and quiet, as were the lazy evenings that swept quietly over the grounds and manor of Montblanc.

The richly-decorated parlor had an almost ethereal glow to it in the late afternoon light – the crimson sunlight of evening eventually faded to sweet violet and drifted across furniture and walls embossed with gray-veined marble and luminescent mother-of-pearl, motes of dust waltzing in the air. The heavily-embroidered white silk curtains that framed the French doors were still pulled aside, and the windows themselves open to fill the room with the rich, sugary perfume of a southern spring. The sounds of twilight - the rustle of cool breeze drifting amongst the thick stately branches of the oak grove, the chattering of brown thrashers across the grounds, the steady clipping noise and crunching gravel that signaled the approach of a horse-drawn carriage - were drowned out by Haydn, and the young woman who sat at the white piano playing the piece seemed content to ignore the laziness of the day around her.

Charlotte Raith’s long elegant fingers danced across the keys, but her gray eyes were thousands of miles away from the parlor. Still, her expert touch never missed a note and she continued on with the musical dalliance, her lips turned down in a frown.

She knew that she was expecting guests momentarily and that, should one of the kine be amongst them, she should change into a dress that had a much less revealing neckline. However, she found that she was too distracted by her own plans for that night - excitement wrapped in nervous energy bounced around her belly like a capricious bird. The piano playing was an old habit she had grown used these past sixty years to calm her nerves. More than anything though, she wanted to smile and laugh and dance about the room - soon, she would be free from this gilded birdcage.

_Soon..._

She heard the front door open followed by an exchange of pleasantries. The notes of the last bar fell off into nothingness as she sighed and rose, smoothing out the silken planes of her pale blue dress before hurrying off to the grand foyer. She was certain her father would have disapproved of the southern hospitality she had picked up over the decades, but she had found it to be quite useful in charming the townsfolk and ridding them of their suspicions.

One of those budding suspicions halted on her way down the hall, eyes wide in surprise at the sight of her mistress. “Ma’am.” She dropped into a quick curtsy. “You have company.”

“I know,” she replied breezily, making her way past the servant. “I’ll call you shortly in case we might have a need for you.” The girl blushed and hurriedly vanished into the pristine bowels of the manor. Charlotte sighed, watching her go - after several months, at least the townsfolk no longer angrily murmured how odd it was for the Raiths to keep slaves of _every_ skin color. She could honestly not recall how many honeyed words she spoke as a plantation owner or soldier or politician writhed and sweated above her to twist their minds in their favor. The memory of it brought a bitter taste to her mouth.

Still, she ran into the grand candlelit foyer with a smile on her face that only grew larger when she saw who was standing there. “My, isn’t this a surprise? Bella, you look...resplendent.”

Isabella grinned, tightening her grip on the small child who was trying to make a break for the stairs. Her dress was an avant-garde cascade of black silk and crimson lace, giving the impression of thousands of blood-red lilies tumbling through a night sky. A silver pocket watch hung loose around her waist. It was macabre enough without her pale skin and dark hair to starkly contrast it.

Still, the gothic look was belied by her infectious smile as she closed the door behind her. “‘Resplendent’?” she echoed, in a horrible mimicry of Charlotte’s southern lilt – a lifetime in New England had ruined her. “Lotte, the South has made you want to _spoil_ people– Ellis, stop it!” The little boy made a face at her, scuffing his boots against the floor miserably. Isabella rolled her eyes and knelt down next to him. “If I let you go, you must promise us that you won’t make a mess of Lotte’s house.”

Ellis’s eyes darted across to Charlotte, who winked at him. “I promise. Let me _go_ , Bella.” He tugged his hand free and darted towards the gold shadows of the upper floors. Isabella watched him go with an amused smirk on her face that slowly faded as she turned back to Charlotte, lips pursing into a thoughtful expression.

Charlotte knew that look, but she pretended to misunderstand its implications. “It must’ve been a very tiring trip for you. How is New York?”

“Dreary.” Then, without pausing for the usual niceties associated with changed subjects, “The family is on their way.”

Charlotte frowned – she had not been expecting that. Isabella was watching her for a more alarmed reaction, she supposed, and she quickly settled her expression into one of neutrality. “Oh? How many?”

“Father, his brother and sister, Lara.”

 _Oh. That’s a bother._ Charlotte forced a smile even though the caged bird in her stomach began to flutter even more wildly. “Well, I suppose I’ll have the cook set more place settings for dinner.”

“Lotte, I’m serious.” Isabella crossed her arms, mirth gone from her eyes. “I’m concerned. It took me a _very_ long time to find out the source of the rumors, and if I can do it, you know Father can.” She sighed, shaking her head, dark ringlets bouncing against her bare shoulders. “You _know_ how he can be.”

“It must be horrid if I have _you_ worried,” Charlotte chirped, leaning forward to kiss Isabella on the cheek. She had heard the shred of fear in Isabella’s voice and she shuddered inwardly. Her sisters were all strong women, but in the intense, all-encompassing presence of their father, they became mere slaves to his will. “Bella, you have nothing to worry about. I do appreciate your concern however.”

Isabella’s lips quirked up in a smile. “I enjoy ruffling my family’s pristine feathers. I can’t abide when you do it – soon the family may be known for having two black sheep.” Still, she grasped Charlotte’s hands in her own, and Charlotte was struck by how cold they were. “I want you to have all of the happiness in the world, Lotte, but you can’t do that if you’re dead.”

Charlotte laughed, surprisingly herself. Her hands shook not in fear, but barely restrained excitement. “You will always be happy for me.” She shooed her half-sister in the directon of the stairs where the sounds of feet thudding against wooden floors and shrieks of surprise from the servants could be heard. “Now stop sassing me and go and fetch little Ellis before he ruins the carpeting. Honestly, he takes after you when it comes to mischief and trampling mud through the house.”

With a playful scoff, Isabella vanished up the stairs, hollering for her brother in a _very_ unladylike manner. Charlotte watched her go before glancing in the director of the darkened alcove just off the main hallway where a breathing shadow stood, waiting. “You heard all of that?” The shadow nodded briskly. Charlotte let out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding. “Perhaps we should leave earlier.”

“Charlotte, if your father’s as dangerous as you think...”

“Shh.” She melted into the shadows too, looking up into Will’s dark, serious face with a reassuring smile. “Everything will be fine. We’ll meet by the southern copse as planned.” She leaned up to press a kiss against the corner of his mouth, always the extent of their physical affection.

His dark brown eyes were wary. “If we run, he’s going to follow. Sure none of his daughters ever threw his authority back in his face like you’re about to.”

Charlotte laughed quietly, settling the flutters into her stomach. “Darling, Papa has much more pressing issues than little old me. A wayward daughter is the least of his concerns.” She refused to think about her other siblings, some dead for three hundred years, who had either spat on their father’s authority or had the misfortune of being born male. She heard stories, of course, of ambitious Ursula or timid Tatiana, kind Victor and vain Matthias. There was another sibling too who would have been her eldest brother, but only Lara, Natalia, and the twins had been alive during his lifetime. None of them spoke of him.

Will still didn’t look convinced - _always impossibly pragmatic, that’s my William_. “We could stay. If leaving puts you in danger, we _should_ stay.”

Charlotte’s blue eyes flashed and her jaw stuck out at a stubborn tilt. “No. Don’t ask that of me.” The idea of staying another year, another month, another _day_ under her father’s control was more than she could bear. Will understood that, understood her loathing and terror of her father when he came on his visits, the overwhelming pressure to do as he bid. She loved her sisters and brother dearly, but she could not subject herself to that anymore. “I can’t bear to stay here any longer. And if Papa ever finds out about you...”

His smile was wistful now. “Are you saying I shouldn’t have fallen in love with you, Miss Charlotte?”

Charlotte smiled, heartbreakingly lovely. _Isabella, you aren’t the only black sheep in the family._ No White Court vampire she had ever heard of had ever fallen in true love before – not Isabella, not even kind and warm-hearted Natalia. It made what she felt towards Will even more extraordinary and sadly, even more of a curse. She would never consummate her love with him or risk never being able to touch or hold or kiss him again. It was sheer luck that they had discovered their feelings for one another before...well, before. It hurt though, and the loathing she felt towards her Hunger always grew whenever she thought about it.

Damn the curse.

“I’m saying that I love you too much to let you go. Papa can’t have you. None of them can. We _must_ run.” _And become social and supernatural pariahs, but I don’t care._ A Southern belle and a runaway slave. They _had_ to disappear.

In the darkness of the alcove, she wrapped herself in the familiar, warm strength of his arms. She was excited about the prospect of a life without the sickening shadow of her father spread over her, life with William and away from the Raith web that had entangled her for decades. Something cool and hard pressed into her cheek and she smiled – he still wore that locket she gave to him nearly a year ago? Hidden beneath his shirt, no one would know except the two of them.

It was the best sort of secret.

“In an hour,” she finally said, pulling away from him reluctantly and straightening his shirt. “We’ll be far beyond the borders of Savannah before Papa and the others even arrive.”

His laugh was deep and rumbling and she could feel its breadth beneath her hands splayed against his chest. “Yes’m.” He leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead and then grasped her hands, pressing several kisses against her knuckles. She squeezed his hands, closing her eyes at the soft brush of lips against skin. Worries melted away as the night melted away from the dawn – this was going to be okay. Everything was going to turn out fine.

He pulled back, giving her the small, self-deprecating smile that she had come to love before turning to vanish around a corner. Charlotte lifted one hand to her chest, a smile brimming with joy crossing her face. She knew she must present a front of jaded belle to the servants and to her family, but there were moments when she wanted to yell her happiness at the top of her lungs. She regretted that none of her siblings had ever felt this way – although there may have been hope for Ellis still. He was still so very young, and she promised herself that she would come back for him when he was old enough.

She took several deep breaths and then emerged from the alcove, glancing around the golden-hued foyer. The goal was to travel light – a horse, even a stallion, would tire out if she bundled too much clothing. What she needed more than anything was money and luck; the former she had plenty of and the second one was riding along with impatience.

Charlotte climbed the stairs of the manor, skirts gathered in her hands, and made her way to her room. The windows were flung open to embrace the warm evening (she closed them) and her room was otherwise a perfect picture of Southern decadence. She ignored everything, quickly snatching a small satchel from the hidden drawer in her vanity seat and perusing it. It took her several minutes, but she finally found the brass key buried beneath pointless little trinkets. Settling it gently onto the bed so as not to lose it, she began to undress. As she unclasped dozens of tiny, nearly invisible hooks, she realized how much she missed the breezy, uncomplicated pre-Raphaelite dresses that had been popular some decades back.

 _Goodness gracious, you need to be a wizard to climb in and out of these contraptions_ , Charlotte thought in dark amusement as frustration finally led her to rip the last few remaining hooks out of the bunched cloth. Mother-of-pearl buttons bounced onto the floor. Hurriedly, she dressed in a billowy linen shirt that scratched fearsomely against her bare breasts and a pair of men’s dark cotton trousers, topping everything off with a hooded cloak made heavier by the money sewn into the hem. It was warm though, and the cowl would hide her face.

She glanced down at the pocket watch hanging from her waist, nearly hidden in the folds of the cloak. She cursed – undressing and then redressing in an appropriate outfit had taken more time than she had anticipated.

Adjusting the hood, Charlotte turned to her image in the full-length mirror. Big blue eyes, bright with excitement, stared out at her from beneath the shadows of the hood, a few tendrils of dark hair framing her face. The cloak nearly swallowed her, made for someone with her height but with a much larger girth. She wrinkled her nose at the image before snatching up a pair of black gloves from her vanity, stuffing them into a pocket. The gloves had been sitting amongst a king’s ransom of jewelry and she frowned as her fingers brushed against an agate-and-topaz bracelet – a long-ago gift to her mother from her father.

“Did you change at all, Papa?” she mused, picking up the delicate piece of jewelry. “Or did Mama never have a chance?” She always did wonder how Papa picked his brood mares, and she winced at the terminology even if it was true. None of her sisters spoke of their mothers, if they had known them at all. Maybe they were all the same in temperament – it didn’t matter once Papa got a hold of them anyway.

She swore to herself that she would never force Will’s affections. He had fallen for her despite her heritage because she was _Charlotte_ , and she had done the same for him – quiet, sensible, well-spoken, humorous Will. Had it been five years since he’d come to the manor? Six?

She stuffed the bracelet into her pocket as well - _a reminder_ , she thought to herself with a nod. She opened another drawer and glanced down at its singular content – a gleaming .45 cavalry revolver. Err on the side of caution? She touched the inlaid mother of pearl, fingers ghosting down the polished white oak. After a moment, she sighed, picking up the revolver, and tucking it into her waistband – just in case.

Charlotte was about to open the door to head back downstairs when she heard a pair of a feet thud rapidly down the carpeted hall followed by the rustling of Isabella’s skirts. She grinned at the thought of Isabella having to chase Ellis all around the manor until he finally tuckered out (and Isabella cursing like a sailor the entire time), but the smile gradually faded away when she heard Ellis shout, “Luka! Luka!”

_Luka?_

The thudding feet were followed by a low, familiar laugh – Luka’s rare laugh – and Charlotte felt a sudden chill fall over her. Dimly, she heard Isabella and Luka exchange pleasantries...and there was another voice too, smoky-sweet and also achingly familiar.

“I apologize for coming so early, Bella.”

“It’s nothing,” Charlotte heard Isabella laugh. “I’m just surprised. You must’ve been racing behind me to get here. Daddy must not be too far behind.”

 _That’s for me_ , Charlotte thought, not daring to move, barely daring to breathe. But calling their Lord ‘Daddy’ was meant to deliberately provoke Lara, something Isabella had been doing the moment her Hunger had awakened. _Isabella, you sweet idiot._

“He’ll be along,” Luka replied. Charlotte imagined that Ellis was eagerly trying to climb up Luka’s pristine regimentals and briefly wondered which side of the war he’d be on. Then she chided herself – of course Luka would play both sides if Lara and Papa had anything to say about it.

“Where’s Charlotte?”

“She’ll be along. One of the slaves caught her fancy.”

Charlotte took several steps away from the door, her brow furrowed in consternation. What were Lara and Luka doing here so early? It was barely more than a forty minutes since she and William had parted and now she was doing her best to stall them - but it would only last for so long. Fingers grazed the pocket watch and she turned towards the other door in her room, the one that led to the darkened stairwell leading down to the seldom-used cellar. The cellar itself had a passageway that led to a shed by the northern half of their land, much farther away from the copse than she intended. It would be a good run to meet Will on time.

 _Or I could risk Luka’s questions_ , she thought, biting her bottom lip. _He’s more of Lara’s favorite than Papa’s...but Lara is Papa’s daughter more than any of us. She always has been. Dammit._ It was unladylike language, but Charlotte didn’t feel like being very ladylike. Risk being late to meet Will or head out the front door with a lie on her lips and hope Luka and Lara wouldn’t ask too many questions?

Time sluggishly passed. She was still weighing the pros and cons of either option when she heard yet another voice – a trilling girlish soprano.

Charlotte blinked. What was _Victoria_ , the only daughter of her aunt Lucrezia, born a scant sixteen years ago and not yet under the compulsion of the Hunger, doing here? _Papa wouldn’t dare bring a White Court virgin to a bloodbath or allow Lara or Lucrezia to. He must not be here yet._

Relaxed by the appearance of her uninitiated cousin, Charlotte readjusted the cloak so it appeared to cover the bulk of an evening dress and opened the door to her room. The hallway was silent, but she heard Ellis’ gleeful shrieking and other voices coming from just beyond the gently curving staircase. She stood inhumanly still for several heartbeats, listening to the conversation and footsteps leading away from her on the floor below. If she tried to sneak as some humans did, the floor would creak and give away her location. But if she ran...

Charlotte didn’t like purposely drawing on the Hunger, and if she did now to keep silent, she wondered how it would be once she finally came close to Will. Both she and the Hunger reveled in him being close, and she always had to keep herself from being Hungry when in his presence.

 _Of course my family is making this difficult for me again,_ Charlotte mused wryly and quickly snuffed out the thought of being able to be with Will _completely_. Her Hunger stirred in the pit of her belly and it took all of her will to tame it back into submission. No. It would _not_ have Will. Will was _hers_.

She listened until she was sure her family had withdrawn into the parlor and then hurried down the stairs as silently as possible, cloak fanning out behind her like a pair of great black wings. She smiled at the idea of flying away – if only it were so easy! There were no servants around, and a quick glimpse down the hallway told her that her family was otherwise entertained for the moment. She wondered if she had Isabella to thank for that.

The dark violet of evening enveloped her completely as she finally escaped the manor into the night. Her riding boots crunched on gravel as she leapt with excitement from the stairs leading up to the front door, frightening one or two fireflies that had lighted upon the little tufts of grass next to the balustrade. Ahead of her, the gravel led out to a mile-long row of oak trees, their top branches entangled so thickly that they provided a canopy for a good deal of that mile. Another similar path wound around to the southwestern part of the property to a dense copse of trees that separated the main house from the stables and the acres of Montblanc's grounds.

She walked quickly down the path, pulling her cloak snuggly around her shoulders. The revolver was a cool and solid weight against her hip. She hoped Will would forgive her for being several minutes late – she had stood in that upper hallway waiting for her family to move much longer than she anticipated.

She was glad that she was a fair hand in riding; doing the math in her head, she surmised that they could easily be in South Carolina before the next morning. They’d head through South Carolina and then North Carolina and Virginia. There might be a bit of trouble along the border states – Delaware and Maryland weren’t optional with the threat of civil war looming.

Charlotte pursed her lips thoughtfully as she wove her way through the southern copse. Virginia was doubtful, but if they managed to make it through to the western half, it would be easy to travel through to Ohio. Then it would be a simple trip from Ohio to Michigan and from Michigan to Canada. If they hadn’t already disappeared, being lost across the United States’ northern border would certainly help. From Canada, she and Will could go anywhere. The options were endless.

She took in a deep breath of peach-scented air. They’d only have to run a few decades. When Will succumbed to mortality, she would follow close behind. No more running, no more fear.

Freedom.

She was nearly open the clearing that led to the stables situated downhill when something made her pause, a prickling along the nape of her neck. She looked around the clearing, saw nothing out of the ordinary, and started forward again a bit more slowly. Why were her nerves starting to act up now? For heaven’s sake, it was mighty silly of her to get scared as a jackrabbit so close to the edge of her cage.

She found herself absently smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles in her cloak, and grinned slightly at the idea of trying to make herself presentable to Will. She was a Raith – she was _always_ presentable. Striding forward, she pushed open the far southern door to the stable.

The rancid smell of blood and burned flesh caused her to stumble.

Her hand slid down the face of the door, several long splinters digging into the soft skin of her palm, the pain remote. Her boots slipped on the straw-strewn dirt floor of the stable as she stared blindly at the scene in front of her, horses screaming all around her, the smell of manure and gore and hay mingling together into a nauseous jumble of stenches that made her gag. Blurry-eyed, she stepped further into the stable, coughing against the thick, cloying smell of blood.

“Will...?”

He was there, lying near one of the stalls. The black-maned gelding within it banged violently against its restraints, eyes wild in fear – the odor of death may have been unknown to it, but it was terrifying nonetheless. Charlotte stumbled against the stall, staring bleakly down at Will’s bloodied, mangled corpse. Dark skin peeled, layer upon layer, patches of burned pink blotted across his body. A thin, blackened rope hung loosely around his neck. His shirt and trousers were grimy with dirt and blood and smoke stains – he was scarcely recognizable from the burns and the blood.

_An hour._

A flash of silver caught her eye. Slowly (why was everything moving so slowly) she turned her gaze towards the skeletal hand (fingers that had brushed against her lips, stroked her hair, strong and warm and...and...) and saw her locket, _their_ locket, lying dented on the ground, the silver chain pooled on the straw and dirt.

“Will...” she choked out, raising her hands to touch his face and recoiling at the blisters and blackened skin. Her own face was wet - was she crying? Was it blood? She searched for a breath, listened for a heartbeat – anything. Anything to tell her that he was still alive, that this wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening – they had been _so_ close.

_It was only an hour._

Then another thought managed to pass through the sharp-edged cracks in her sanity and grief, oily and malicious and ringing with _truth_ : _Papa did this. Papa killed him._

And suddenly pungent despair was choked out by something that climbed from her belly and set her heart ablaze – white hot rage and she only saw red.

He was dead.

Will was _dead_.

She wasn’t aware of picking up the locket or sprinting across the spacious and darkened grounds of Montblanc, grass and gravel crunching beneath her boots. If it had been anyone else, anyone _human_ , they would have tangled themselves up in their riding cloak, bruising hands and knees in a fall. But for the first time ever, Charlotte indulged her Hunger and it eagerly fed upon her fury and guilt and anguish. It bloomed inside her, supplying her speed and grace, a demon that still paled next to her raging hatred for the man she called her father.

The world passed in a muddled whirl of darkness and stars and grass, but Charlotte didn’t care about the beauty of any of it. She was only vaguely aware of slamming open the front door in the manner so hard, it came apart from the frame by all but one hinge with a mighty crash, leaning drunkenly into warmly-lit front foyer. Any other time, such destruction would have made her frown – but now, she was beyond caring.

Will was dead.

She absently noted the appearance of some of her family members – Victoria and Isabella, her face strained and pale, standing on the lowest landing of foyer’s staircase, Marsilio and Lucrezia emerging from the spacious hallway that led to the parlor, staring at her in surprise and confusion. But not _him_.

Coward.

“Where is he _?_ ” she growled, her voice not even sounding like her own. At some point during her mad rush to the manor, the pins in her hair had fallen out, leaving her black hair cascading around her face. Her clothing was stained with soot and dirt and blood, her face with tears. She must’ve looked mad. “Where is he?! Tell me _, damn you_ ”

Silence.

Then, a pair of footsteps, silent to anyone without enhanced hearing, came from just behind Marsilio and Lucrezia. From the flickering candlelit darkness emerged her eldest sister, her lips turned down in a disapproving frown. Lara eyed Charlotte calmly with that same cold, unshakeable serenity that Charlotte had admired when she was growing up. But she found nothing to admire now – her eyes drifted past her sister to the tall, handsome man that coolly walked up behind her, looking only mildly annoyed by the disturbance in his evening.

Flames ricocheted in her chest - _a disturbance._ That was all this was to him.

“You killed him,” she seethed, her voice dropping to nearly inaudible whisper. “You killed him and he did _nothing_ to you.”

Her father raised an eyebrow at her, ignoring the questioning looks from the other family members...except there were none from Lara or Isabella. The latter looked sickened, the former was still with that steely resolution. Charlotte wanted to scream.

“You must be mistaken in your accusations,” her father said in a chiding but conversational tone. “When we arrived, I heard of rumors going throughout Savannah...well, they were hardly the sort of thing one would speak about in front of polite company.” His eyes shimmered moonlit-gray in the flames of the sconces – and she found no solace in them. “But the general consensus was that the young lady of this manor was seduced and assaulted by a slave. I believe _that_ may have riled up some kine that believe themselves vigilantes.”

“‘Assaulted’?” Charlotte choked out, blood rushing from her head. The pieces slowly and painfully fell into place. She felt sick. “You- you-...”

“...have done nothing except arrive to console my daughter,” Lord Raith said, a calming smile on his face that never lifted to his eyes. Those eyes were calculating, ambitious, and far too keen. Charlotte was reeling - he had known. He had known maybe even before Isabella herself had put together the pieces and in the end, all he had to do was whisper a rumor. The bigotry that ran through most of the blood of the South would take care of the rest, already inflamed by promise of civil war.

One look at him told her she was right. Her future of freedom from her chains had been nothing more than a child’s dream.

And he had made sure he had seen the destruction of it.

She didn’t know when she started screaming or when Marsilio and Luka grabbed her arms to keep her from attempting to rip her father to pieces. She wanted to hurt him - no, she wanted to _kill_ him. For killing William, for killing her dream. She raged in their strong grip, drawing on the vampiric nature that she usually reviled. She saw nothing but red, barely heard Marsilio’s words to calm herself. Nothing else in the world mattered any more - Lord Raith had William’s blood on his hands, however deceptively, and she would have _his_.

There was a wail of uncomprehending terror from the balcony - Victoria, still left in the dark about everything. A pang of horror shot through Charlotte’s heart, but even that was swallowed in her desire to rip the man she had known as a father to shreds.

She didn’t know how long she continued or how long Marsilio and Luka continued to hold her back. But even her Hunger couldn’t supply her with continuous strength, feeding upon her rage or not, and she never fed it as deeply as her siblings or other relatives. Eventually, she was left grasping nothing but the flames of her own hatred and despair - strong enough compared to a human, but when held by two men who still relied on their Hunger to hold her back...

Her chest heaving from exertion, she spat in her father’s direction as he approached - and he backhanded her with enough strength to leave her nose bloody. Pain blossomed along her right cheek and jaw, and she let out a sob twisted by agony and fury. She felt his cold fingers on her chin as he forced her to look up at him, and she poured all of her loathing and heartbreak into one single blue-eyed glare that would have reduced lesser men to tears.

“Clearly, your delusions of love have driven you to madness.” He barely sounded concerned. “A shame. I do hate to see one of my daughters suffer so.”

Her jaw burned too horribly to respond and her head swam from the rage still burning red hot within her. She could only glare up at him, pale blood seeping from her nose. He watched her carefully, silver eyes sharp in their shrewdness.

He sighed, looking towards Lucrezia whose jaw clenched at the suddenness. “It’s a good thing this came out now before news of Ford Sumter reached the rest of the United States. I’ll have to deal with this tonight. Isabella, if you _would_.” The last was spat out coldly. Overhead, she heard Victoria’s sobs of confusion – where had Ellis run off to? – and Isabella quietly whispering words of comfort to her. Soon, the sobs faded away as Isabella seemingly managed to move her cousin away from the foyer, leaving Charlotte, her father and his siblings, Lara, and Luka standing at a standstill in the silence.

Her father gazed back down at her, eyes still emotionless. Charlotte felt no fear or despair – every other emotion had been bludgeoned to death by anguish and a simmering hate that had finally boiled over. Her nails dug into the tender flesh of her palm as she hung limply between her uncle and her cousin. It wasn’t fair, not any of it. Did he really expect her to so calmly return to being one of his pawns after this? She couldn’t care less if the White Court burned.

_Not anymore, you bastard. You filthy, disgusting..._

She lifted her chin defiantly and met her father’s eyes without a trace of fear. She refused to be cowed. When she finally spoke, her voice was ragged and tired from her screams, but she was still loud enough for everyone in the foyer to hear her. “I’ll _never_ stop fighting you. I’ll _never_ be a pawn in your sick games again.”

She felt rather than saw the shocked gazes that fell upon her, but ignored them. The ashes of horror within her had ignited to sheer stubborn loathing – it was a death sentence, she knew, but she’d be damned if she _ever_ bowed her head to her father again. A small, grim smile passed across her father’s face – in anyone else, it would have been faint amusement. Charlotte knew better and refused to be frightened. Not anymore.

“Well, that simply will not do...” he murmured idly. He shrugged gracefully and then turned away from her, his attention back on his brother. “Take her up to her room. I’ll visit her shortly.”

Silence.

Charlotte felt Marsilio’s fingers tighten around her arm in astonishment and she almost smiled. Madness. It was all madness.

“You can’t,” Marsilio intervened after a moment of shock.

“Father-” Lara said at nearly the same time, taking a step closer. Charlotte heard a thread of uncertainty in her voice and was momentarily surprised. Why would Lara care about her wellbeing? She hadn’t been the adored older sister in decades...so long ago, so much time gone...

“Do any of you presume to tell me what I can and cannot do?” Her father’s voice was smooth and eerily calm. His gaze traveled to the others and she _felt_ his presence, as heavy as a fog and a thousand times more choking encompass them all, and suddenly none of them could meet his eyes...except for Charlotte. She angrily threw off his will, the tilt of her chin refusing subservience. She saw his eyes narrow at her as everyone else looked away, and what she saw in there the first flicker of annoyance and complete promised destruction of her soul.

It didn’t matter. _He_ didn’t matter.

_Will..._

She smiled harshly at him, wrapping herself in the flames of her anger, and whispered:

“ _Never_.”

:::

Breathe.

The revolver is cold in my lap and heavy. The door is locked and I know _he_ will arrive momentarily. He wants me to be frightened, wants to obliterate my will until nothing of _me_ remains. I shiver, but not from fear. The fear is gone. I only feel cold...and very alone.

Luka and Marsilio never said a word to me when they pulled me into the room. Luka is a soldier – he’ll always do as told. But I see something in Marsilio’s eyes – old regret, despair, anger. He is unhappy, doesn’t want this. I feel nothing but pity for him. Retaliation against my father is unheard of – it’s why he all but pronounced by execution in front of them all.

They didn’t find the gun.

I look down at the cold gray metal, touch it lightly. Plans. That’s all we’ve ever had. Elaborate plans, lies, and gambits. We all make our own mistakes and learn. And if we don’t learn, we die.

Will was the price of my mistake.

My Hunger stirs sullenly. It’s weak. It needs to feed. I will not give it the pleasure. I will not give Lord Raith the pleasure. The revolver is cold to the touch. So very cold compared to the fire within.

My mistake.

The odds should be evened.

I close my eyes. Anger. Hatred. Grief. It was never fair, but maybe one day...

Breathe.


	11. Interlude

  
**Interlude**  
 **The Oracle**

:::

It must be odd, some distant cousins whisper in the several decades following Victoria’s birth, that the Lord’s very own sister would name her daughter for the bleak embarrassment that had been Victor Raith.

Over elegant dinners that span the Victorian age and a good portion of the Edwardian, some speculate that it is to serve as a reminder that not even the ruling House of the White Court was immune to madness. Others say that it is a form of defiance from the White King’s infamously capricious younger sister (the gossip is, of course, no interest to Houses Malvora or Skavis, both whom still sourly lick wounds from ages past). No one truly knows the reason behind it, perhaps not even the mother of the child. The rumors eventually fade into obscurity as such rumors are known to do when nothing stokes the fire, and interest turns to other, more pressing matters.

The child at the source of the speculation remains ignorant of the storm of gossip surrounding her.

Her childhood, like many of her cousins, is despairingly normal if affluent, growing up alongside the upper tiers of London high society. One winter, when she is very young and wide-eyed at the idea of trip on passenger ship, she asks her mother about the frequent change of names they employed as they traveled across Europe. She receives a sharp scolding from her mother, later reiterated by her uncle (the nice, smiling one, not the one whose mere presence scares her). It is the first and only time during her youth that Victoria comes close to determining the true nature of her family, and nearly ten years would pass before she eventually realizes the truth.

Victoria is there that fateful night in Savannah. She has been under the care of her eldest cousin Lara, another of her mother’s kin that she is intensely wary of, and a commotion in the manor’s grand foyer leads her and Isabella to the stairs. What Victoria sees is nothing short of shocking – she remembers screaming, heaven knows for how long, but nothing beyond that except darkness and fear. The follow days are dire blackness and filled with harsh, uncertain whispers.

Charlotte, killed by a self-inflicted gunshot to the head. Her uncle’s emotionless resolution to the problem. Victoria herself, shocked into muteness over the truth of her family. The family is in turmoil, but Victoria doesn’t know anything beyond the locked doors of her room, first in Savannah, then in Boston. Eventually, a handsome young man is brought to her – Victoria thinks his name is John – and the confusion and terror gives way to deep-seated anger at being kept in ignorance and uncertainty about the family she thought she trusted.

She is the quietest of them all, even quieter than her brother Luka. She never seems to show any particular interest in any of the kine although its clear from her intended survival that she beds plenty of them. When it comes time for the rare family gatherings that take place every three or four decades, Victoria is always mysteriously absent. Her mother makes no excuses for her and neither does her brother.

The consequences of disobedience don’t shake Victoria. After all, she was brought into the fold after having witnesses the only act of defiance to the White King that anyone ever spoke of.

As the nineteenth century slips into the twentieth, Victoria sullenly realizes that she has more in common with her long-dead cousin than merely a name. The dreams come to her frequently, vivid and sometimes wildly alarmingly. She doesn't attempt to make sense of any of them, tells no one of her predicament and visions - the mere stories she's been able to scrape from Natalia about Victor are enough warning. What would the other Houses say if there were not one oracles in the family, but two?

Luka, of course, figures it out, and Victoria is relieved infinitesimally that it is her older brother who discovers her secret, so much so that when he gently confronts her about it, she weeps. She tells him of her nightmares and dreams and visions that span decades in a matter of nights, and Luka, always the protective big brother, alleviates her fears with words of comfort and reassurance. Victoria fears madness; Luka tells her he will never let her fall into that void.

The years pass in a series of wars and battles, both mortal and supernatural, and Victoria awakens screaming from nightmares that leave her chilled to the bone. Sometimes, Luka is there to whisper the cacophony of dreams away, but more often than not, she is jolted from the realm of dreams into darkness. She comes to fear the darkness, a primitive phobia that causes her to whimper and break into a cold sweat. A light must always be on when she falls asleep, and sometimes, it frightens away the nightmares.

Eventually, Elisa places the pieces of the puzzle together as well, after one terrible dream sends the buck Victoria bedded running from her suite. Her sharp-eyed cousin sits on the edge of the bed, uneasy with calming words, but having picked up enough from Luka to soothe his little sister. Victoria is wary to tell her more - there is a war looming on the horizon and they will all be involved to the point of drowning in blood - but when Luka returns from a bloodied and broken Europe, he assures her that Elisa can keep a secret.

For years, it is simply the three of them: Victoria as a reluctant oracle, Luka as her protector and comforter, Elisa as his unbelieving and sarcastic assistant.

Whispers abound again. It has happened with Madeline and Madrigal - why would it be any different between these two siblings and their cousin? House Raith, with the White King commanding an even more powerful presence than any of his predecessors, looks as if it will never relinquish its power with such an eclectic group of pawns.

But Victoria knows better. On the eve of America's blossoming war with Vietnam, she has a dream that one day, the White King will fall and another, crueler and wiser, will take his place. This is the first and only dream she keeps a secret - because in her dreams, she sees which pawn takes the place of the King.

And she is frightened.


	12. Alistair

**| 9 |**

  _Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it._

:::

I must say that the number of times my father has tried to kill me is actually _very_ impressive.

Of course, no one must admit to my attempted murders and it's all done quite cleverly and with bits of strings and shadows attached. But as the one being on the receiving end of those attempts, I have to say that they are rather frequent and make my life far more excitable than it has any right to be.

I cannot say that I regret my accident of birth (my poor deceased mother would probably feel more sorry for my current shipshape affairs) - my life has been one dastardly incident after another, and I, perhaps due to madness or optimism, could not have it any other way. The demon part is mean-spirited though, but society is more interested in their technology and their wars than the Almighty (He and I haven't seen eye to eye for about three years now anyway).

By the winter of 1914, with Europe quite amazingly in a scuffle over assassinations and alliances, I've already been an outcast for several years. Wakening my Hunger turned me into a rather rich if aimless nomad, and I had been wandering throughout England and France for some time until some archduke managed to get himself shot and instigate a war (or something along those lines - Luka would have a far easier time explaining it than I). A few more months of the kine howling injury at one another had convinced me that it would be much smarter to take an extended holiday in the United States.

Jumping straight away into my father's den is, of course, not the _wisest_ of decisions, but I've learned some things over the past few years:

One, I had become a rather good shot after all of the attempts on my life. A few practice sessions wouldn't hurt the old arm anymore than that break in '12 did.

Two, annoying my father in my few remaining years of life is far more entertaining than being cowed by him.

And three, I am, nor will I remain, the only family member that has drawn the ire of the White King.

:::

  _The Astoria Hotel  
New York City, New York, United States_

The lighthearted strands of “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” had just begun to drift out of the hotel when the corpse launched itself at him.

Alistair Raith, his arms full of hatboxes and paper-wrapped parcels, only had a moment to blink, and then he was forced to drop all his boxes on the ground and duck underneath the Black Court vampire’s claw-like grasp. One of the hatboxes went rolling away further into the alley, its contents nearly upending, but Alistair was too preoccupied with the decaying figure’s attack to be concerned about it. He leapt backwards in a near inhuman arc to put a nearby brick wall at his back. He nearly tripped over one of the larger parcels, but caught himself just before he would have slipped and fell into a pile of slush.

 _Not this again_ , he thought in exasperation as some of the packages fell in the dirty snow collected on the side of the buildings. _Honestly, these things_ must _take a holiday for Christmas!_

Just beyond the darkness of the alley, Alistair could hear the roar of the wintry Manhattan evening, New York in the midst of its cheerful Christmastime, muffled by the snow and the high brick walls and millions of bodies that made up most of the city. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw the vampire skittering along down the alley, blankly staring at him through its filmy blue eyes, before bounding up one of the walls. He watched as it sped back towards him, jaw unhinged and gaping, decaying teeth and blackened saliva dripping down its malformed jaw. Alistair could see madness in its twisted expression, its intent clearly to rip out his heart or perhaps tear his throat into bloody shreds.

But Alistair was just as fast.

He reached into the inner pocket of his coat, the tails already billowing out behind him, fingers tightening around the well-worn handle of a Colt. The last time he had to use the gun was along the French Riviera less than two weeks ago and he realized he should have been thankful that he hadn't had to use it aboard the _Olympic_ (he had enough time explaining how two of the quartermasters, an officer, and one of the Marconi operators had ended up in his cabin in various states of undress). Gunfire in the middle of the busiest city in the United States would attract attention, but hopefully, if he timed it right, he could get away with blowing the bastard’s skull in without alerting the local authority figures.

He flipped the revolver into his hand with practiced ease and didn't waste a moment doing something as human and time-wasting as aiming. He could see the dirt beneath the living corpse’s nails, its blackened tonsils as it launched itself at his throat, the straining tendons of its neck...

_Yes, right there. Good man._

There was a short, sharp blast. The creature wailed in pain as its head snapped back, gore splattering on the already-stained wall behind it. Half of its head, bone and brains and black blood, fell to the filthy ground with several loud, disgusting plops. The smell of rot, added on top of New York City’s already less than recommendable smells, nearly made Alistair gag. He jumped backwards, already reaching for something else hanging within the folds of his voluminous coat. The ground was slippery now with not only slush and ice, but the cold, gelatinous blood seeping from the vampire’s head wound.

But somehow, despite the grievous wound, the creature was still moving albeit much more slowly.

Alistair would have grinned (there was nothing more exhilarating than a good fight), but the blasted thing had made him later than he already was and had probably ruined one of those neatly-wrapped parcels and the items inside. Slowly, he drew a gleaming piece of steel from the shadows of his coat, the silver edge glinting even from the far-off brilliance of the snow. His tweed suit and frock coat were ill-suited for an impromptu sword fight, but Alistair had no desire to prolong it. He fell back into a practiced stance, bringing the saber up in a defensive posture.

"There, there," he murmured, narrowing his eyes. "Let’s be civilized about this, eh?"

The vampire screamed.

"You're terribly impolite."

Even as he was speaking, the creature threw itself forward in a whirlwind of gnashing teeth and stinking flesh, impossibly strong and impossibly fast. Alistair slashed out this sword in a feint before dodging to the side, the creature’s own momentum causing it to skid in the slick surface of the ground. A flailing arm hit Alistair in the side, and he grunted in pain – damn, he’d forgotten that those vampires, especially relatively new ones, were stronger than they looked. It was Egypt all over again (a reminder of how much he hated Egypt).

He continued to move into his dodge, keeping his head low and pulling his gun up to his side. There was another white-hot blast, another splatter of putrid flesh and bone from the creature’s thigh. Alistair gave a mental sigh as some of the gore landed on a nearby package. Honestly, it took several _weeks_ to find some those gifts.

Still, the vampire did not seem to realize that parts of its leg and head were now decorating the darkened walls of the alley. It barely stumbled, twisting almost gracefully at the waist (and here Alistair winced because he could hear bones grinding and popping at the unnatural twirl), and started back at him, its blind eyes wide with insanity.

And Alistair, with a swift flick of his wrist, lopped its head off.

It wasn't very graceful or illustrious as kills went – a unicorn in Germany would testify to that (if it were still alive, of course). The Black Court vampire took a shaking step forward and then collapsed as if its strings had been snipped, its head rolling down the alley some distance before it came to rest besides a stinking pile of garbage several feet away from the mouth of the alley. Alistair grimaced, pulling an embroidered handkerchief from his jacket and wiping the grisly mess off the steel of the cavalry saber. He nearly put the delicate piece of cloth back in his pocket before realizing that no sort of laundress would be able to wash out the stains, and he let it flutter to the ground.

Then he pocketed his gun, slipped the sword back into the folds of coat, and went about collecting the soaked parcels and dented hatboxes littering the alley, muttering the entire time.

It was about forty minutes after he was supposed to arrive that he was let into a spacious and understandably ostentatious suite of the hotel, his bowler hat askew and his losing battle with the pyramid of parcels starting to give way to gravity. He managed to look around one rather large hatbox and eyed the other two occupants in the room with a disgruntled expression. "Some help, if you would?"

The girl, gray-eyed and astoundingly beautiful in her white satin evening gown and pearls, tittered at the proposal and elegantly lolled in one of the two richly-upholstered chaise lounges the room boasted. A man several years older than either Alistair or the girl gave her a stern look before crossing the room to help relieve Alistair of his burden. "You’re late."

"I came across some trouble," Alistair said, crossing over to one of the tables and dumping the rest of the parcels on its top.

"Anything we should be concerned about?" the man asked, piling the parcels and hatboxes into a pyramid on the vanity. Alistair shrugged, flipping his hat off his head and sending it soaring over to the empty chaise lounge.

"I suppose not. Just a thug trying to cause a bit of trouble. This season turns even the most decent gentleman into monsters." He knew that the girl would not understand his double meaning, but the other man would – and sure enough, the man blinked as comprehension dawned in his eyes. He nodded brusquely.

"Yes, that it does. I suppose the war in Europe doesn’t do much to settle people’s nerves."

The girl sniffed. "Let the kine slaughter each other. I don’t see how it concerns us." Her eyes glittered. "Unless one of my dear cousins is susceptible to becoming prey to even the weakest of them. Honestly, it’s an _embarrassment_."

"Christmastime in New York is one of Dante’s hells. Stop sitting there smirking and open your present, Madeline.” Alistair tossed a small, damp package in her direction, not really caring where it landed. He heard a shriek, followed by an annoyed growl – but Madeline’s temper had long stopped being something Alistair was concerned about.

“What is this?”

“Strange. I could have sworn it was a wrapped bundle usually exchanged during wintertime in Christian lands during the celebration of the Lord and Savior’s birth.” Alistair shrugged. “Although there is a possibility that I’ve been lied to these past nineteen years.”

Madeline scowled, any playful indolence gone from her pretty features. The other man in the room gave her a wan smile, one of repeated dealings with her tantrums. “Now, now, Madeline. He was only teasing. Weren’t you, Alistair?” Alistair beamed at his cousin, whose expression only darkened in anger. She snatched up the present from where it had fallen on the floor and stormed out of the room in a whirlwind of righteous indignation, perfume, and rustling skirts. Both Alistair and the other man watched her go, and the man sighed as the door slammed behind her.

Alistair grinned at the man. “It doesn’t take much to rile the old girl up anymore, does it?”

“She’ll be back, probably after plotting something devious,” Marsilio Raith replied, collapsing into one of the chairs at the table. Alistair shrugged out of his coat, revealing the sheathed saber hanging from his waist. As he folded the coat across the back of one of the chairs, Marsilio began to pour him some coffee from the silver pot sitting on a tray nearby. “What was it today?”

“Black Court,” Alistair replied, tossing his suit jacket on the growing pile as well. “The bastard took me by surprise too – made me drop all of these _very_ expensive presents.” He planted his fists on his hips, frowning down at the dented and wet packages on the table. “It was difficult enough finding these in the first place. I’ve the mind to send him a rather considerable bill – the Fabergé egg I obtained for Isabella is a tad fragile, and I’m sure she’d be brokenhearted if I gave it to her in pieces.” He snorted. “Though I could tell her that it’s the Fabergé version of Humpty Dumpty.”

Marsilio was silent, clearly unable to share Alistair’s mirth. For as long as Alistair had known his uncle, the older vampire had a very distinct pall hanging over him despite his smiles and kind words. Elisa and Isabella both mentioned that before the American Civil War, Marsilio had been the epitome of _noblesse oblige_. Despite Alistair’s curiosity and natural stubbornness that made him the bane of his family, he had never been truly able to figure out what prompted the change in his uncle other than it had started around the time of his sister Charlotte’s suicide.

Alistair winked at his uncle, hoping to bring a faint smile to his face. “Come now, Uncle. We know that Father will stop at nothing to fatally disinherit me.” He patted the hilt of the saber still swinging at his side. “It makes like a grand adventure, I suppose.”

Marsilio set two cups of coffee down on the table and rubbed at his eyes wearily. “I’m sorry I haven’t been much help to you.”

“You’ve done all anyone can ask of you...although a little _less_ help from that Mr. Glau you employ would be appreciated.” Alistair sat down across from Marsilio, wrapping his hands around the heat of the cup. He took a sip, made a face, and then pulled out a flask from his inner jacket pocket. Pouring half the contents into the coffee, he continued, “Neither of us can really help it if my father is a glorious, jealous bastard.”

Marsilio’s smile was thin. “I’d hope it’d be different with you.”

“History is the strictest mistress although she has a habit of repeating her favors.” The coffee was scalding, the brandy burning, but Alistair drank it down anyway, relishing the heat. “Of course, it _will_ be a shame when the world loses me.”

“You seem unafraid.”

“Death is yet another great adventure,” Alistair replied flippantly. “And, if you’ll excuse the pun, a once-in-a-lifetime experience.” His grin only grew wider when his uncle groaned at the play on words. “But who knows? Maybe I’ll outwit the old fox in the end.”

His uncle fell silent, staring into the rich depths of the coffee. Alistair momentarily left him to his thoughts and picked up his own cup, making his way towards one of the ornate windows that looked out over Fifth Avenue. A light dusting of snow continued to lazily dance down from the sky. Far below, the streets were crammed with people, vendors, carriages, and the occasional-but-still-popular automobile – there was cheerfulness in their air, a normalcy that still had not yet been punctured by the growing threat of Europe’s war. Alistair didn’t follow military propaganda as much as his cousin Luka did, but he surmised that eventually some great tragedy would eventually lead the States into the war.

 _Great tragedies_ , Alistair thought, downing another gulp of brandy-laced coffee, _seem to follow this family around like wretched ghost._ Of his twelve siblings, seven had died over the past four centuries including all of the sons. It was only the constant reminder that Alistair himself was living on limited time that forced his own cheerfulness – most of his sisters had abandoned him when his demon had awakened. Even Isabella and Natalia kept their distance, although with Isabella it was possibly for the better – she was already causing enough trouble by embroiling herself in the women’s suffrage movement.

It was a lonely existence for a young man just nineteen, maybe. But Alistair had been born with a hunger for adventure and excitement, curbed only by their family’s social status. The wealth, though, actually helped – he had been able to explore exotic locales ever since he was a boy in the company of his older sisters and Uncle Marsilio. Looking back now, he wondered how many of those so-called world tours had been excursions initiated by his father to kill or silence members of the supernatural community. The influence of the White King was steadily growing, if one paid enough attention to realize it.

Perhaps, if Alistair had been cowed by his father’s choking shadow of influence, he could have eked out a few more years of his life. But he had long ago decided that if he _must_ die, he was going to enjoy life to the fullest, irritable father be damned. Besides, the number of attempts on his life made things unpredictable – he never knew when he was going to be poisoned, shot at, shipwrecked, drawn and quartered, decapitated, or mauled by an Indian elephant (that last one had been particularly inelegant and Alistair had eventually passed it off as mere accident).

And then those _missions_ more than made up the rest of his life. Peace and quiet were foreign things to him.

He _was_ however starting to wish for something stronger than brandy to pour into his coffee and he turned back to his uncle, leaning against the icy plane of the window. “How is Lara’s marriage to that unfortunate Romany chap, by the way? Has the poor fellow run off in terror yet?”

“I’d forgotten you’ve been out of the loop.” Marsilio rubbed at his forehead, and Alistair straightened, sensing that his inquiry was more trouble than he had intended. “They’re divorced, in a matter of speaking.”

Alistair knew what that meant – and it certainly required another swig of his coffee. Tragedies _did_ seem to follow them around like a stray bullet. “How did that come about?”

Marsilio shook his head sadly, and Alistair was struck by how the centuries had finally seemed to weigh his uncle down, his strikingly handsome features lined with fatigue. “My brother does not tolerate rebellion easily – the engagement was only half-sanctioned anyway. And she’s been so preoccupied lately.”

“Lara? Preoccupied?” It was a hard notion to believe, but Alistair had a good idea what was behind her recent mood. His hand itched to clutch a familiar note. Still, he kept his expression mildly curious.

“You wouldn't really only notice if you’ve known her for several centuries and observed her long enough. Even Lucrezia doesn’t see it, but then again...” Alistair nodded as Marsilio trailed off. Lucrezia’s dislike for Lara was well known within the family, although the origin of the hate was unknown even to Alistair's older sisters. "She's been distant, and I suppose marrying Romany was a moment of poor judgment on her part. Either way, for the first time since I can remember, she rebelled against my brother's wishes."

Both of Alistair's eyebrows raised at that. "Honestly, Uncle - I leave the country for a few months and I come back to find my most dutiful sister did not do as father dearest dictated? Clearly, it's a sign of the impending end of times." Despite the flippant comment, Alistair wondered about the repercussions of such a thing. He had only met his eldest sister a handful of times in the past nineteen years, and had to go with gossip amongst siblings and cousins to learn more about her. He doubted that any rebellion on her part would have been as flagrant as Charlotte's, but properly contained...he shook his head. No - it hadn't worked, wasn't that obvious? And that note... "Father must have been displeased."

Marsilio sighed. "The divorce would say as much."

"Did she love him?" It was a tricky question, and Alistair knew it. The implications of the engagement, marriage, and divorce - all but one not condoned by the White King - would imply that it had been a political maneuver by Lara, but it didn't seem like her. It was too blatant and far too social damning if it wouldn't be accepted by her own father. _You've been keeping secrets_. There was only one other option that he could come up with, but even as Marsilio shook his head with a faint shrug, he assumed there was more to it than that. "It's a mean state of affairs, Uncle."

"A dangerous sort. My brother does not care for fools or cowards."

"You're saying that Lara is one or the other?"

"I am saying, nephew mine, that we all hide our secrets. I'm only surprised such things haven't come to the forefront sooner."

Marsilio lifted his eyes to meet Alistair's, and there was a despairing blankness in those pale blue depths that startled him. _Empty night, what has happened to this family?_ Alistair stared at the older vampire for a moment longer and then reached into his jacket again, pulling out the half-full flask and handing it to him. "Take it. I think you need it more than I do."

Marsilio looked at the flask in blinking confusion and then amusement spread over his face warily and he chuckled. The laugh sounded both strange and familiar on him, and Alistair realized it was because those laughs were far too rare. "You're too young to drink."

"Unless they decide to enforce prohibition in this country, I'll damn well drink as much as I please." He grinned brightly. "I've only a decade or so more of being a useless cad."

His uncle looked pained. "Alistair-"

It was at that moment that Madeline swept back into the room, her haughty poise regained from her brief furious flight from the suite earlier. She spared Alistair a brief irritable look before flouncing over to bed and collapsing onto the end of it, a single dark curl escaping her proper upsweep. She quickly began rummaging through the hand bag sitting less than an arm's throw away from her, pulling out a cigarette and a silver cigarette holder a moment later. "Father, must we continue to keep unfavorable family members in our company?"

Before Marsilio could say anything, Alistair blithely replied, "Cousin _dearest_ , smoking is intolerable for a lady of your station. Perhaps you could take up more reliable methods of entertainment - like cliff-diving."

Madeline's eyes narrowed at him as she lit her cigarette. "Unlike some people I could mention, I'll at least live to see the end of this decade."

"Right you are!" Alistair winked at Marsilio to add some glib to his words. "Don't you think it mighty strange that the careless and foolish seem to have the best luck when it comes to outliving their peers? One would think they outwitted death if being in their presence hadn't made it very clear their wits had _already_ suffered a premature death."

Madeline's jaw clenched and Alistair saw fire burn in her eyes beyond the plume of smoke. _I suppose that is my cue to leave then._ He tossed his coat on with careless ease, but did not button it - who knew how quickly he'd have to reach for his saber and any sort of beastie he'd come across surely wouldn't give him time to undress. He had to pass by Madeline to pick up his hat and that icy glare never left him as he reached for it and placed it on his head at a jaunty angle, tipping it in mocking farewell to his cousin. She scowled.

"Uncle, please be sure my sisters receive their presents before the holiday," Alistair said, sliding on his gloves. "I'm afraid Father's gift ended up washing overboard on my trip from London. It was truly a shame - I cried a bit. You must give him my best regards nonetheless."

Madeline snorted. "Arsenic in your blood would be the most perfect gift."

" _Madeline_." Her father's voice was stern. She pursed her lips in annoyance, but did not say another word. Alistair, even after all of these years, was impressed. Despite the twins' oft-times reckless behavior, a mere word from the White King's brother was enough to shame them into silence. He wondered if their ways would be as easily dismissed if he was not there to buoy the worst of it.

 _But I'll never know_ , he thought. "Take care of yourself, Uncle. I will see you next Christmas if Father enjoys playing his game too much."

Marsilio's smile didn't quite reach his eyes, but it was enough.

Alistair reached the lobby a few minutes later, impervious to the appreciative glances he was getting from both ladies and gentlemen alike. He never actively employed his Hunger, but sometimes it was inevitable - at least with the season, one could pass off such appreciative looks as holiday cheer. Besides, he was far more concerned with the news that his uncle had given him about his family from the brief meeting - or rather, the news that he had _not_ given him.

House Raith was clearly in a precarious situation - any sort of rebellion would be crushed, no matter how minor the infraction. He pitied his poor sisters, assaulted into trembling submission by the charming beast that was the White King. Still, Alistair alone could do nothing about it - even rare meetings like today's would be reported on by whatever spies his father hired. Helping his sisters was out of the question, especially when it took most of his cunning to stay alive himself.

His other task was even more strange, even more dangerous.

As he emerged out into the street, he pulled a folded piece of paper out of the coat pocket not carrying the Colt. It had been folded and re-folded so many times that the edges had begun to fray. To any passersby, he simply looked like a handsome youth reading the latest telegraph from perhaps a friend or colleague or lover. He almost smiled at the image he knew he presented.

 _Callow youth, yes, but a damn good fighter._ He sighed, his breath fogging up in the chilly night air. _I doubt it will be enough. Either my father or these missions will kill me first._

Then with a jaunty step and a whistle on his lips, he tucked the note back into his pocket and turned in the direction of Grand Central Station. The train to Pittsburgh left in an hour and it would truly be a shame if he missed it _again_.

:::

In some ways, it is a bit petty to use my father's wealth to live an opulent lifestyle. But I argue that if he intends to kill me, a few stolen thousands were hardly going to matter in the end.

The train ride to Pittsburgh is humdrum as usual, though I hadn't been to Pennsylvania since I was a lad of fourteen. The world has changed so much since then - or perhaps it is me that has changed. After all, I hadn't truly been a son of the White King then - I still find it remarkably funny that when I did become a true "prince", I was forsworn to death. Terribly unfortunate, if you ask me, and not very good for one's prospects of becoming an aviator.

As the train rolls through the night-lit cities and the darkened countrysides, I wonder if this is how the game will always be played for the Raiths. Outwardly, we are the epitome of manners, grace, and political ingenuity, but we are more beast than man. Perhaps we wear beautiful masks, but I believe that we are rotten to the core. Even more, it is what is _expected_ of us in our world. A name can be a great thing, and I've used the Raith name to gain access to places when hearers of that name tremble in fear and suspicion. It makes me wonder though what other sorts of things my father has does to retain his position as king. He is smart, cunning, ruthless. Our small rebellions are nothing but that - small.

It will take more than a wayward son to topple the kingdom of the most glorious masquerade anyone has ever encountered, and I'm afraid I am not up to the task of doing that. I unfold the scrap of paper in my pocket again, smiling to myself. There are other monsters in the world, far more terrifying, and what an adventure it is to face them. Carrier of secrets and all of that. I can only assume Lara's discretion carries over to the same task I presented her with weeks ago.

**tell me about the war**

A command, of course. No requests of "please" from eldest sister Lara. Besides, she'd probably find a way to turn this to her best advantage anyway. I had expected as much.

A Venator in the White Court was a strategic move, perhaps a little foolhardy. But it was an adventure, and I could never turn down the exploits of a secret world if I could help it. Besides, I would be dead or dying soon enough and who would keep my sisters informed of the secret war raging beyond the kine's petty squabbles, even the greatly inflamed one across the Atlantic?

I smile, sitting back in my seat. No one could dare say that I was _completely_ disloyal to my family.

Only a little.


	13. Elisa

**| 10 |**

  _You have enemies? Good. That means you’ve stood up for something, sometime in your life._

:::

There are several things I can't stand. Central America, conservative kine, dresses, and my father are all at the top of that list, in no particular order. I could've taken fire to all of them and been happier for it.

So imagine my utter  _joy_ when it seemed that all those things got rolled into one lousy list early in the 1950s, and off I was shipped to Havana to ascertain how our relationship with the Red Court was fairing. Oh Father, I could have said, it's going as well as can be expected - we're ready to tear each other's throats out in order to claim a rather dinky island that has godawful tequila and only somewhat adequate cigars.

I'm sure as hell he wouldn't have liked that approach.

There's one thing I've learned in the past two hundred years though - Pop isn't to be disobeyed. Oh no - if you even _think_ about rebelling against him, he will casually discard your existence. It's happened three times already to two of my brothers and my sister Charlotte (although Alistair - that bastard's death was so terrible and embarrassing, Father didn't even want to take responsibility for it. Leave it to Alistair to humiliate our father even with his demise). Charlotte killed herself rather than subject herself to Father's mind games and rape, and Ellis...Ellis, we never even got to see his body.

I like living. Call me a coward or callous, but it's something I've gotten used to. If Father wants me to go to Cuba to sweet-talk the Red Court, then I'll go to Cuba to sweet-talk the Red Court.

Doesn't matter anyway. Over the past few years, my manners have been shot through the wringer. If I could get away with telling Pop to bugger off, I would've.

At least I got a car out of it.

:::

_Hotel Nacional de Cuba_   
_Havana_ _, Cuba_

“I need to know if you’re interested.”

Elisa Raith sat on the hood of the mud-speckled Aston Martin, lazily dangling a cigarette in one hand and paging through a tattered and worn copy of Rimbaud’s poems sitting on her lap with the other. Any serious bibliophile would have screamed in horror at the rare copy of _Une Saison en Enfer_ being exposed to smoke and ash, but Elisa wasn’t overly concerned – the book had already survived two world wars, a handful of revolutions, and a spelunking trip with Isabella. A few bits of cigarette ash weren’t going to harm it (and it wasn’t as if Arthur was around to complain anyway).

She looked up from the browned pages of the folio and raised one dark eyebrow at the olive-skinned man standing in front of you. She knew already that her worldly looks were severe – she had the look of a gamine without the wholesome mischievousness that was usually associated with one. Her black hair was chopped extremely short, highlighting the stark cheekbones, large gray eyes, and full red lips to an almost startling degree. The tattoos and a man’s black leather jacket probably didn’t help matters.

Raising the cigarette to her lips, she noted, “You came all the way out here to ask me that, Raúl? Should I be flattered?” The man scowled and Elisa inhaled the fumes with a smile so small it might as well not have been there at all. Turning her attention back to her book, she added, “I’ve had enough of revolutions.”

Raúl was silent for a long time, and she could feel the heat of his glare on her. She could easily pretend not to notice – being blasé about matters had become her niche over the past several decades – but her demon took note of his quickly-rising heartbeat, the rush of blood to his face. _The buck is invigorated by the notion of a higher calling, but he lusts for power. How easy it would be for us to break him, have him pleading for mercy and release beneath our touch. So simple to take him right here and let his fellow kine hear him as he cries for more._

Elisa lifted her eyes again, speculative. She could feel the subtle touch of her Hunger wash over her, its familiar warmth fitting her like a second skin. She watched as Raúl's breath caught in his throat, his pulse quickening as a flush rose to his cheeks. He wasn’t a particularly handsome man, but the demon had never been choosy about its victims. She doused him in the sultry heat of her gaze for a few moments more, waiting for the obvious inevitability of his arousal.

Then, just as he took a step towards her, she scoffed, reining in the demon with little more than a tug. She had already fed her demon earlier that evening.

“No, I’m not interested.” _Not on your side of things._ “You want Raith influence, but you won’t have it.” She jumped off the car and wiped nonexistent dirt from her tight black trousers before tucking the folio of poems beneath her arm and biting down on the cigarette to keep it from falling to the dirt. “If you’re honestly that interested in having our support, I think you should have your brother talk with my older sister Lara.”

The name had the intended effect – Raúl blanched.

Elisa gracefully shrugged into the leather jacket that was several sizes too big for her, digging out a carton of cigarettes from the pocket. Carefully, she lit a new cigarette from the smoldering ends of her current one, her eyes never leaving his. “It’s been a real pleasure, honey. But these sorts of battles are for folks much younger than I am.” She left him stewing in his own anger, kicking a few rocks as she went. She suspected that one of his more hot-headed lieutenants might vandalize her car, but she didn’t care. It wasn't like she had paid for it.

She skirted around the parking lot of the hotel, gravel crunching beneath her red heels. Anyone else would have tripped or stumbled, but Elisa’s grace was otherworldly. She caught some of the hotel’s patrons staring at her as she passed, smelling of cigarette smoke and an exhilarating perfume. _What a sight I make_ , she thought. The leather jacket really was unnecessary – Cuban nights were abnormally warm – but she liked the smell of it. It reminded her of the buck that probably still lay senseless in a pleasure coma in her hotel suite.

Eventually, the sound of salsa music drew her back towards the outdoor section of the restaurant. As the night wore on, the music always became less Americanized, the strands of Cuban dance music overtaking the big band and swing that populated the charts back in the States. Some of the more conservative guests would move on but a good portion, usually of the younger generation, would stay to dance for hours on end.

Elisa easily wove her way among the white iron tables and hustling waiters even as her demon took gleeful interest in the swaying bodies of the kine on the dance floor – a brief whisper would send any one of them, buck or doe, her way. But she was less interested in them at the moment than the pull of something familiar coming from the far corner of the patio, bathed in shadows and red-gold candlelight. She turned in the direction of the pull and swiftly stalked over to the corner table. Just beyond the gates of the hotel, she could hear the sounds of waves crashing along the beach and the cry of seagulls, barely visible against the blackness of the night sky.

She pulled out a chair, flung her jacket and the folio on the remaining empty one, and leveled a long, steady gaze through a haze of cigarette smoke at the woman now sitting across from her. “Is this important?”

“It’s good to see you, sister-mine – it’s been far too long.” Even though it had been nearly a decade since Elisa had last seen her, it was still impossible to ignore that Natalia Raith was still breathtakingly beautiful, even for a White Court vampire. She had put on some more muscle since Elisa had last seen her, but it didn’t distract from her prettiness. The candlelight of the restaurant flickered across her alabaster skin and in her blue-black hair, and no matter how far she sat away from the kine or how demurely she dressed, she drew attention like a flame unconsciously drew moths.

There was one peculiarity though – her eyes were strangely dark, a much deeper blue than Elisa had ever recalled seeing on her sister. She flicked the end of the cigarette around with her tongue, giving Natalia a look that dared her to try and lie to her. “There’s something wrong. You’ve been feeding heavily.”

Something flickered across Natalia’s face – pain? Uncertainty? Frustration?

Elisa let out a puff of smoke. “Don’t tell me Father’s decided to cut me off because I haven’t been handling this stupid revolution right.” She pulled the cigarette from her lips, lips pursed in annoyance. “I told him I hated battleground territory – the Reds aren’t going to let Cuba go because the kine decided to riot.”

“Marsilio’s dead.”

Elisa blinked and went inhumanly still, the only outward show of surprise she allowed herself. “I beg your pardon?”

“Uncle’s dead. There was...an accident.”

There were no such things as accidents when you were a Raith. Elisa had received too many visits and calls and letters over the years, bringing dire news of another sibling or relative’s death, to peg things as accidents or coincidences. It was the way their family worked.

She took a long drag of her cigarette. "Well, fuck." She closed her eyes, carefully drawing the attention of a passing waiter to their table. She didn’t spare a glance at the trembling boy as she said, “Tell Marco to give me his strongest.”

“Señorita...”

“That wasn’t a request.”

Natalia watched the boy run off and gave her sister a disapproving look. “Elisa–”

She shrugged. “I don’t know about you, but whenever I hear yet another family member has been killed, I feel the need to drink myself into a stupor.” She lazily sat back on her chair, looking out over the darkened beach. Despite her callous words, she wished this sickening game within their family would come to an end. While she had long since been numbed by hearing about the deaths of her siblings – Charlotte, Ellis, and Alistair, all dead within six decades of each other – she did not particularly care to hear about anymore.

And Marsilio...Marsilio had been a constant in her life for the past two hundred years. He was one of the few family members who laughed without scorn or irony and who, although living in his brother’s shadow, provided strength all his own. Of the adults in her family, she always felt more comfortable with Marsilio than with her father or Lucrezia – he had always displayed more kindness than either of them, a rarity amongst White Court vampires.

But things had changed after Charlotte’s death. So many things.

The waiter returned a moment later, bringing him a small bottle of golden liquid that Elisa wished was three sizes bigger. The boy hovered at the table for a moment before eventually Elisa gave him a look that sent him scurrying away. She rolled her eyes and took a swig of the alcohol. It scorched her throat on the way down as if it were literally made of flame – it would have made anyone else choke and gag and made their eyes water. Elisa only grimaced. “Marco's good people. Pretty sure cyanide isn’t as bad as this."

Natalia continued to watch her warily. “Is that really for the best?”

Elisa snorted. “Our uncle is dead, most likely killed by our father, which means there is some serious shit going on behind the scenes. Father’s moving from conquering mortal territories to trying to establish alliances with other otherworldly factions. We’re already fighting over this dinky little island and trying to hide it behind some kine politics, and if I don’t do a good job, I’m probably going to end up like uncle dearest.” Her eyes were hard. “Damn _straight_ it’s for the best.”

Elisa almost regretted that she made Natalia flinch. Only a handful of years younger than Lara, Natalia had never developed that ruthless streak that their eldest sister possessed. She was kind, like Marsilio. _And see how well that ended for him_ , Elisa thought bitterly.

They sat in silence for a few more seconds until Elisa could feel the heat of the drink start to spread to her bones. She relit another cigarette, crushing the previous one beneath her heel. “Tell me what happened.”

“It was an accident.”

“Bullshit. You know better, Tasha.”

Natalia sighed, folding her hands on the table. A steely glint flickered in her dark eyes. “There was a plane involved. The only thing I know for sure is that it happened over the Atlantic. When they found his body...” Natalia trailed off, her hands clenching so tightly Elisa could hear her joints pop. “He drowned. That’s the official word. Drowned...or crushed or asphyxiated or shot or hung, it doesn’t matter. He’s gone, just like all of the others. And it doesn’t matter.”

Elisa was quiet for a moment. Her sister was trembling, though with anger or despair or grief, she didn’t know. _Of course, idiot,_ Elisa berated herself a moment later. Natalia was well over four hundred years old – if Elisa herself thought she had it bad with living through the deaths of three of her younger siblings, how much worse was it for Natalia, the second oldest of them all? Now she was being told that her uncle, the kind and smiling and humorous uncle who had been in her life since the days of Henry VIII’s court, was dead just like her siblings? Worse, that her father was the one behind the murders?

“We’re still relevant,” Elisa replied as the band started up another round of salsa music in the background. She twirled her cigarette between her fingers, bits of ash falling to the table. “That’s important to remember. When it comes to power, we may be nothing more than glorified pawns, but we’re still alive. _That_ matters, and it counts for something.” Elisa wasn’t one for giving optimistic talks, and she knew that this one was probably laced with more cynicism than necessary. But she was nothing except realistic when it came to their eventual prospects.

Natalia’s smile was wan, her features webbed with grief. “This isn’t living, little sister. Living is not being a pawn. Living is not being subjected to Father’s...” Her voice trailed off. Elisa knew what she had been about to say and turned away, bile rising in her throat.

“Well...” Elisa’s voice was rough. “Things are bound to fall apart eventually. That’s the sort of world we live in. The center cannot hold.”

Natalia shook her head. “I refuse to believe that.” Her eyes were dark with something other than sadness now, and Elisa tilted her head inquisitively. “Your poems aside, Elisa, this is not the type of world I want to live in. There was a time when everything was peaceful before we moved to England years and years ago. We were also so much happier then, even though Papa and Marsilio and Lucrezia were already...oh, Elisa. There was no one else before us. It was just me and Lara and the twins. Everything was less...complicated.”

Elisa caught the nostalgic glimmer in Natalia’s eyes for days long gone. _Must have been nice_ , she thought. _I wonder what it would’ve been like not to have any older brothers and sisters waiting around for you to die._ She thought about the three siblings she had known before dying – merry but far too headstrong Charlotte; studious and dutiful Ellis; flippant, mysterious Alistair. A suicide, an automobile accident, and a freak molasses accident in Boston had removed them all from her life. How many more brothers and sisters would she live to see die, caught up in that game that the Courts played against each other?

Would she be one of them?

There clearly wasn’t enough alcohol in the world for this.

“So did you come to warn me?” Elisa finally asked, sitting back in her seat and crossing her legs. She didn’t have time to feel sorry for herself. If the pieces of whatever plan Father had set centuries ago were finally falling into place, she at least wanted to know if her failure with this mission would mean her death. “Should I go into hiding until Father rips off my head?”

Natalia narrowed her eyes. “Don’t speak like that. We won’t let that happen.”

Somehow, she refrained from rolling her eyes. “I guess by ‘we’ you mean you and Lara. I’m sorry to tell you this, Tasha, but I doubt Father is going to let you usurp any death sentences that come our way. Sort of the reason while we’re all damned five thousand ways to hell.” She rolled the cigarette in her fingers. “We’ve lost countless of relatives – I don’t see that changing any time soon.”

She was about to reach for the bottle again when she felt a shift in the air that delved more into her blood than against her skin - it was like a cold static running through her blood, unnerving and powerful. She looked up in surprise and saw the subtle change that had washed over Natalia - her features seemed more stark than before, her skin more luminous. There was a _pull_ to her that hadn't been there before and it sunk into every fiber of Elisa's being - not enough to make her want to take her sister right there on the table, but enough to give her pause about her next words.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that she wasn't the only one affected. The music had faltered. Every eye in the restaurant had slowly turned towards them and there was not a single person not staring at Natalia as if she were some sort of goddess reborn.

Throughout it all, Natalia's eyes remained that unsettling dark, dark blue.

" _No_ ," she murmured, bells as foreboding as Notre Dame's woven through her voice. "No, I won't let it happen. He is not taking any more of you away from me."

Elisa quickly glanced at the other patrons. "Natalia-"

Darkness flashed in Natalia's eyes. "We're blood. We're _sisters._ "

And there it was, a truth that struck deeper than anything else she might have said. Elisa shuddered as if Natalia had stabbed her with a knife. Father wanted this, didn't he? They were all very loyal to each other - throughout the years, who else could they be loyal to? It was their family that held the throne, their House that ruled the White Court. They were ambassadors and spies, princesses and assassins, bound by blood to the White King. It would have been so easy to forget that despite all of that, despite the blood on their hands, despite the fact that death followed them all around like a shadow - they were all, first and foremost, siblings.

Had they lost that somewhere along the way? Why was that one truth always so hard to grasp? Maybe it was the fact that none of them knew who would be next in the spinning roulette to draw forth their father's ire. His male offspring were always damned, but Charlotte and Tatiana and Ursula had all proven that Lord Raith's daughters could fall to the same fate. Elisa bit her tongue until she could taste blood - had her father tamed them all so well that they were so quick to throw their own brothers and sisters to the wayside?

 _It's not wrong to not want to die_ , a voice argued in her mind. The scythe taking out one sibling could very well include one or two others. Even if they were blood, they were predators above everything else. The demon was nothing if not tricky in its self-preservation.

_But at the expense of my sisters...?_

Elisa nodded slowly, watching smoldering ash fall from the end of her cigarette onto the table. "Yes. Yes, we are." _It doesn't change anything._ "But I can't pretend that our necks aren't on the line if we mess up. You know what Father will do."

_Rape us. Kill us. Neverending cycle._

"He can't take this way from us," Natalia murmured, closing her eyes. The wave of longing dissipated slightly and her shoulders seemed to slump. Despite having clearly fed extremely well over the past several days, Natalia suddenly looked exhausted. "I can't defy our father. I love him because he will always be Papa, but I hate what he's done, Lizzy. I _hate_ him for killing our brothers and sisters."

Elisa took in a long, deep breath. "This is suicidal talk, Tasha." She waved her hand absently, tendrils of smoke curling around her fingers, as intimate as any lover's touch. "Don't ask me to stand up to Father next time I'm spreading my legs for him. He's too strong for any of us, and I'd prefer to stay alive."

Natalia reached across the table to lay gentle, cold fingers against Elisa's forearm. Elisa pretended not to flinch. She could feel the presence of the demon coiled within her older sister, stronger than hers but nowhere near as strong as Lara's or their father's. It was enough for her own demon to pace warily in her mind. She narrowed her eyes at Natalia through the smoke and fog of alcohol that was starting to blur the edges of her vision. _Much better than cyanide._

"I'm not asking you to risk your life, Lizzy." The wave was continuing to fade, but Elisa still felt the stares of the patrons and waiters. "Just...keep an open mind. And tread cautiously. That was Marsilio's mistake."

"Marsilio's mistake was being too kind."

Natalia's laugh was ugly and she withdrew her hand. "Papa took his time getting to him. The reason we had to leave Italy all of those years ago is because of something Marsilio had done. We couldn't return for ages."

"What did he do?"

"There was some sort of dalliance with the Summer Lady. A plan to unravel something, I think." Natalia shook her head, looking sad. "I don't believe anything ever came to fruition over it. But it was enough for the faeries to hold a grudge for several decades. Father..." She looked pained. "He was able to reestablish relations with the Seelie Court and come out stronger because of it, but Marsilio's name was besmirched."

Elisa snorted, tossing her cigarette onto the ground. "And you want to go down the same path?"

"I just want you to be safe. I'm sick and tired of seeing my siblings die."

"I'll keep it in mind." And because she couldn't stand to see the sorrow etched in her older sister's face, Elisa softened her tone and offered her a little half-smile. "You're a shrew, you know? Coming down here and making me feel guilty about all of this. Some of your little sisters can take care of themselves." She rose to her feet, tossing her jacket onto her book of poems - not as if anyone would come along and steal it. "C'mon, Tasha. You came all of this way to Havana, you might as well have some fun while you're here."

Natalia looked up at Elisa and then back out over at the crowd of young people still moving to the sounds of the salsa band. "It wouldn't be proper, all things considering."

Elisa barked out a laugh and pulled her sister up. "You can't come to Havana and not have a taste of the bucks here, honey." At this point, she knew no one would make the connection that they were sisters - Natalia's white dress with its twirling skirt and her long dark curls were a stark contrast to Elisa's tight black pants, tattoos, and cropped haircut. But what did it matter - they were two different forms of a very real danger, one monster wrapped in white silk and flowers, the other in leather and cigarette smoke.

But they were sisters. Who the hell cared if no one else knew?

:::

The negotiations fell through.

I learned later that Father was expecting it and the whole ruse of me coddling the Red Court had been nothing more than that - a ruse. It irritated me to no end, but at least Father didn't claim that I had failed him in some way or another. I would have sighed in relief, but Natalia's words had already started a different sort of flame in my heart, one that didn't so easily brush off the praise in relief.

Natalia's not the sort to start a revolution or a rebellion. She is a lady above all things - a lioness, yes, but still a lady. She said it best herself - she still loves Father, even after all of the things he's done. I guess it should be expected - Natalia's not the sort who harbors hates easily.

But it made me wonder why she would come down to Cuba to warn me about something that I was never in any danger over. Or why she would try to inflame my loyalty towards my siblings - which, I'll be honest, worked. It didn't make any sense, even for sweet, protective Natalia.

I think maybe someone was and still is putting words in her mouth, thoughts in her head.

The question was who? Better yet, why?

Things are going to fall apart. I wonder how soon that shit is going to happen.


	14. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter belongs to the Silvered Lightning AU series.

  
**Interlude**  
 **The Scholar**

:::

Penelope has always been a voracious reader.

As a child, she disappears for hours at a time in the attic of the huge Victorian manor in upper New York, surrounded by stories too fantastic to be real and too real to be imaginative. She loves myths and sagas, can’t fathom histories or philosophy or religion, and dabbles all day in the occult. At times, she is often surrounded by stacks of books brought from all around the world – rare illustrated copies of faerie tales from Denmark, autographed folios from England, gold-plated stories from China. Her collection of Shakespeare is unparalleled. These become her collection, the dearest things to her.

It is perhaps inevitable that she is remarkably shy as a child, often hiding behind the skirts of her mother, a pretty but undistinguished Raith cousin. Whenever the illustrious head of the family comes to visit, Penelope only sneaks a quick glance at him from the stairs leading down to the parlor before running up the stairs to hide beneath a blanket, a book tucked under her arms. Her mother is always very nervous when he comes to visit, but Penelope is always very proud of Mama – she never lets the head of the Raith family see her fear. In her imagination, Penelope casts him in the role of villain extraordinaire, her mother an exiled princess.

Sometimes, Penelope sees her distant cousins, the sons and daughters of the family at the top of hierarchy. They scare her, and more monsters are born in her dreams.

When she’s very young, perhaps only seven or eight, she remembers bumping into Madeline, the daughter of the head’s brother. Despite her young age, she is always very confused by the motley of accents her cousins possess – Madeline’s words are tinged with the barest hints of a Parisian, Felicia’s accent would not be out of place in the hoity-toity circles of London, and feisty Isabella could be from nowhere except posh New England. She dares to ask Madeline about it one day, hazel eyes wide and curious, and receives a split lip for her question.

One of her cousins, the kind one with the mischievous eyes, rebukes Madeline fiercely, and Penelope flees once again to the shadows. She is content to hiding in the shadows of the attic with her fables and monsters (only in the stories, she tells herself) until the nice one finds her, apologizing with a laugh for their cousin’s rude behavior. Penelope _likes_ him – he is the sort of good person that she doesn’t find often among her relatives and even though he always seems to be hoarding secrets, he somehow always has a smile or a wink for her.

Penelope is thirteen when her mama dies – a car accident, they say, but Penelope’s imagination runs away with her – and after some shuffling about among the family, the head’s second oldest daughter takes her under her wing. Penelope thinks Natalia is the most beautiful person in the world, far more glamorous and graceful than the movie stars her classmates titter over. But Penelope, having been raised on stories and tomes sometimes heavier than she, is far more attracted to the mind, something that only the eldest daughter seems to have in spades. But Lara is terrifying and Penelope always reverts to a frightened child when she is around.

Inari is wonderful though, bright-eyed and optimistic and funny even when she was trying to be serious. Inari is the youngest of the head’s children but takes after none of them (and her brother is the one who had rescued her from Madeline all those years ago, imagine that). Her father dotes on her, her sisters adore her, her brother teases her silly. Penelope loves Inari like the sister she never had, and the two spend countless of hours together, gossiping and giggling and generally being typical teenage girls. Penelope likes having someone in her confidence, and for a brief moment in time, things are perfect.

But then she notices things that she shouldn't notice. Her family does not age. There are people who visit Inari's father who bring a coldness with them that reaches into her blood. There are unnatural howls in the night. People, bodyguards, with blank looks in their eyes. Monsters lurking in her nightmares, howling against gates larger than life at the end of the world. She ignores these for several years - imagination, she tells herself. Too much Shakespeare, too much Poe.

It takes a few years before Penelope realizes that perhaps what she feels towards Inari is more than just familial affection. The thought terrifies her, even more so when she notices that she is the subject of many an aside glance at family functions. Are they disgusted with her? No, there is a knowing hunger in their eyes that makes Penelope shiver with fear and, horrifyingly, with need.

During one function she attends, she is cornered by the head of the family himself with his flat, calculating eyes and cold hands, and she is so completely and utterly overwhelmed by his presence, she can barely speak (and there is a part of her that wants to kneel before him and never move again, to sate his every need and want, and it _terrifies_ her). Luka eventually comes and rescues her (she likes Luka too, he always gives her books from his travels around the world) but Penelope can’t help but feel as if she’s being sized up for something.

The moment comes when she turns eighteen, her third month in college. _Everyone experiments in college_ , Nina says, laughing and kissing her throat. _But you’re so pretty, Pen – I just can’t help myself._ Penelope is not sure what any of this means, knows that there’s no experimentation for her, that she already _knows_ what she wants.

And when she wakes up next to Nina’s cold, stiffening body, she suddenly is overwhelmed by the things that had been right in front of her as she was growing up.

Inari, she learns eventually, is saved from that fate. She’s fallen in love. Penelope meets him once, a chap dumber than a toadstool, but it’s clear Inari is happy, more happy than Penelope ever could have made her. A part of her is relieved that Inari won’t be burdened with the Hunger that ravenously consumes most of her family, turning them all into beautiful, gray-eyed monsters. She wants to ask Thomas about it, but she and Thomas haven’t spoken in years – she’s no longer the young cousin who needs protecting and he seems so _distracted_ lately.

But there is a part of her that is drowned with jealousy.

She is picking up the habits of the others. She refuses to lie though – a lie is what kept her from knowing, kept her mother from ever telling her what awaited for her if she did not fall in love. She tries to be honest even as the nature of the predator affects her in other ways – she weaves plots, schemes against her family members, feeds to a sickening degree. And it get worse because the world has plunged into war – not the _real world_ , but this dream world that has turned into a nightmare.

Her mama is gone. Inari is gone. Nina is gone. Everyone Penelope ever remotely cared about has vanished from her life. It hurts, but...

Penelope doesn’t love her family. She doesn’t even _like_ most of them. But blood is thicker than water. She learns this when bedding a young man with a family secret. Even as the buck writhes and moans beneath her expert touch, Penelope grasps at his thoughts, delving pasts his longings and hidden desires and seeing something...something. A dagger?

_O happy dagger..._

Penelope is dangerous with knowledge. The secrets she hoards are ancient secrets, divined from texts older than some species. Words were her weakness as a child. Now, she realizes, she must spin them to be her only defense – her sword and her shield and maybe...

Maybe if she can fight that battle, she could protect the only thing she had left, the thing she hated more than anything in the world.

Her family.


	15. Isabella

**| 11 |**

_Only enemies speak the truth. Friends and lovers lie endlessly, caught in a web of duty._

:::

I’ve always been the black sheep of the family - at least, that’s what they tell me anyway.

You’d think that particular privilege would go to Elisa, with her chain-smoking and tattoos and motorcycles. But nope - Elisa is still very much a conventional Raith daughter (just don’t let her hear you say that). I’m the only one who hangs out with the kine as if it were going out of style - and lets face it, nothing goes out of style when you’re the one creating the trend. I just figured if we have to cultivate a herd, we need to know what best to cultivate it into. So I get the disgusted looks from the other Raiths when I tell them what I do, but it sucks to be them because at least I do my job well.

So that’s what it is - my job. I guess you could say I’m the farmer. Lara gets all the credit though, being Dad’s second-hand and all that now that Marsilio is gone and Lucrezia didn’t want the job. It suits her though, being all high and mighty. She is a grade-A bitch sometimes, but what can I say? I love all of my sisters even when I want to knock them off the nearest airplane and into the closest, highest, and pointiest mountain there is. We’re...close. But when you live a couple of centuries, who else are you going to be close to? The kine have this habit of dying. Not groovy.

There are some though that are entertaining. The faeries can get boring after awhile, and the gods have way too many existential crises to hang out with (who wants to go to party with someone moaning that no one believes in them anymore? No and thank you). But the kine produce freakish anomalies called wizards. And there’s always at least one who can spin a decent record.

The trouble is finding one who can tolerate my levels of adventure.

Or, as my sisters like to say, my lazy insanity.

:::

_Haight-Ashbury_

_San Francisco_ _, California, United States_

“ _Let me take you down, cos I’m going to Strawberry Fields_..."

Isabella Raith felt a presence in the room – fire and warmth and laughter bundled into a cacophony of magic, gliding through red songs. She let out a hiss of annoyance, lifting her head from the warmth of a buck’s bare chest (ugh, which one was this - the blond or the redhead) and glowering blearily at the figure that moved through the loft with a graceful swiftness that would have been enviable to anyone except a White Court vampire. She rolled her eyes with what would have been pure irritation had her eyes not shone with understanding. The other buck (she looked down - the redhead), with his arm possessively wrapped around her waist, murmured in his sleep as she sat up on her elbows.

The woman continued to move through the apartment, ignoring the looks Isabella was giving her as she tossed the garbage from last night’s party into a nearby trash can. Despite Billie Holiday’s voice crooning through scratches from the record machine in the background, the two songs didn’t clash – or maybe that was Isabella’s own opinion. An imperceptible cloud of drugs and sex saturated the air of the apartment, soon joined by the smell of bacon, toast, and coffee as pale morning sunlight filtered through the windows.

“ _Nothing is real and nothing to get hung about, Strawberry Fields forever_...”

“Honestly, Mol – you’ve got horrible timing.” _Wizards have no sense of timing, always hopping from one half of the globe to the other_. Isabella disentangled herself from the two bucks and slipped to the edge of the bed. Her hair, usually dark as pitch but currently dyed a fire-engine red, was tied back into a fishtail that twisted around her arm like a serpent. At the edge of the bed, there was a half empty bottle of liquor. She picked it up, downed the contents, and then tossed the now empty bottle into the trash with a deafening racket. Other empty beer cans, unwrapped packages of condoms, and drugs of enough variety to land either of them or both of them in prison or a mental facility for several months littered the floor and tables.

Still singing, Moll tossed a white embroidered kimono that had been thrown carelessly on the back of the couch towards Isabella, still moving with that strange grace.

“ _Living is easy_ \- go eat something - _with your eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see_...”

Despite the airiness of the lyrics floating through the apartment, Isabella immediately sensed the wary tension behind the words. She frowned speculatively at her friend, sleepily trying to put together the pieces of the strange morning puzzle. She knew what _must_ happen today – Victoria had been hinting at it and pleading with her for months now, and Isabella supposed she should have been pleased that her cousin trusted her so implicitly – but she didn’t think it would have interrupted her life so thoroughly.

She slipped on the kimono and walked over to vault onto the kitchen island, snatching a few slices of bacon and a piece of toast off the plate her friend had prepared. “Moll–”

“We’ve a bit of a walk, Bella. If you would.”

Isabella grabbed a chipped mug of coffee from her friend’s side, bringing it up to her lips which widened in an incessantly bright smile. Well, if Moll was going to be nervous, she was going to enjoy this. She sipped the scalding hot coffee, bright blue eyes never leaving her friend’s constantly moving form – it wasn’t as if she were worried about a soulgaze, not after that first meeting nearly five years ago. “You’re mighty chipper this morning.”

“Your apartment is a mess.”

A dodge – fair enough. Isabella shrugged a shoulder, nipping at her makeshift sandwich. “It’ll last. Why clean it up when I’m having more company over tonight?”

Moll let out a short burst of laughter. “Company? Is that what you call them now? I heard you stole a police car last night with the officers still in it.” She glanced past Isabella towards her bedroom door where said officers were still asleep.

“Everyone needs a _ménage a trois_ at least once in their life,” Isabella argued, tossing her braid over her shoulder and warming her hands around the mug of coffee. Silver gleamed in her eyes briefly before she cheerfully laughed the motes of moonlight away. “And they were young too. Both with a taste for danger. We had fun. You should be proud – I didn’t wake as many neighbors as last time.” Moll’s exasperated look didn’t fade so Isabella settled for sticking her tongue out at her and finishing off her sandwich.

As she grabbed several more pieces of bacon off the plate, she took a moment to study Moll. The tension she held within would have been imperceptible to anyone else but Isabella had known Moll too long – she was anxious about the meeting today. The floor-skimming peasant skirt swayed around her ankles as she continued with her version of pacing. Her dark hair was lazily pulled back into a knot, a few strands of hair escape to frame an interesting if not quite beautiful face that was carefully neutral rather than fiercely proud as it usually was. Her only jewelry was a single silver pendant that hung on a chain between her breasts – the lack of adornment and makeup added sternness to her appearance, but also a sense of natural intrigue.

Isabella, of course, had found her and the reputation surrounding her utterly fascinating – her encounters with wizards had usually been of the rough-and-tumble variety with them usually throwing magic in her general area (Tolkien was right about _that_ one at least). This one was different, if no less short-tempered. It of course should not have surprised her when word of her association with a wizard – a wizard of Moll’s caliber no less – had made its way up to her dad.

At the moment, Isabella could see that something else was on her mind, the way her expression was carefully blank. She had a good idea what that was all about, especially with her showing up that early in the morning. She smirked and called, “Has the marmalade offended you _that_ badly?”

Moll looked back at her and rolled her eyes. “No one likes a smartass, Bella.”

“Oh, everyone _loves_ a smartass. They just won’t admit it. Like some wizards I could mention.” She snorted. “Where exactly are you coming from that you’re so testy?”

Dark eyes flashed. “I think you know.”

Isabella sat back on the kitchen island, kicking her bare feet back and forth to a steady beat against the side of the counter. She tilted her head to the side quizzically, pretending confusion. “You mean you didn’t want to come visit your friend in the White Court for old times’ sake? I’m hurt.” She leaped from the island, white silk and poise, and stretched in a way that would have been distracting for anyone one else – but Moll was used to these sorts of things apparently. Isabella remembered trying to flirt with Moll in those first few months of their meeting – the wizard had laughed right in her face.

“Last time I came to visit you, you wanted to go to Alaska for the sled dog races.” Moll tossed the last can into the trash and then came over to the island to pick up a piece of toast.

Isabella chuckled. “It would have been fun.”

“It would have been _cold_.”

“Bah, you’re a wizard – use magic to keep yourself warm.” But Isabella was already moving back towards her bedroom. “I’ll be ready in a jiff. And don’t roll your eyes at me – show some respect to your elders.” There was an explosive “ha!” behind her just as she rounded the corner to her bedroom.

It was still muggy inside her room, despite the open window. _Another hot day_ , Isabella thought absently, as she bypassed the bed with the two young men still sleeping in it, and headed towards her wardrobe. Honestly, she hadn’t even done any of her normal tricks for them to be exhausted like that – some bucks had _no_ stamina. She threw open the doors to her wardrobe, peering inside thoughtfully, the Beatles’ song Moll had been quietly singing catching on to her tongue.

“ _Let me take you down, cos I’m going to Strawberry Fields_...”

The summer was passing swiftly but Isabella’s brazen mark was all over it – the revival of the free love movement was her doing even though Isabella would be damned if she considered it actual work. The hysteria of the sexual revolution had gripped the nation’s youth, along with a strong distaste for the war the United States was currently waging in Vietnam. Isabella lacked Lara’s subtlety and Natalia’s elegance – when she threw a party (and what a shindig it was), the entire country was involved. She was sure her father was irritated with her, but Isabella had always been an “end justifies the means” sort of person.

Besides, anything else was boring, boring, _boring_.

She had an inkling that Lara was working on some other project that was altogether mysterious and captivating and sexy and whatever else her sexpot older sister usually planned throughout the decades. Isabella had a hard time planning things – she had always been concerned with the present, a rare trait in an immortal creature. It was why the sex, drugs, and music the kine loved never bothered her and why, other than Luka with his guns and politics, she was the only one truly up-to-date with modern culture.

Isabella had tried to explain it to her sisters once. It hadn’t really flown.

She emerged from the bedroom a few moments later, slipping on a fringed vest over her borrowed shirt. As she tied a flowered kerchief around her now unbraided and wild-looking hair, Moll took one look at her and snorted. “What possessed you to steal one of their shirts? I doubt your father wants you to show up looking like a flower child.”

“If he can stand Elisa’s tattoos and leather, then he can stand a little flower power for a while. Besides, I make this look _choice_.” She grabbed her keys from the rack near the door. “C’mon. Time to go dance with the monsters. You’ve got a door covered?” Moll waved her hand in annoyance. “Yeah, yeah – big wiz on campus. Sorry to have ever doubted you.”

There were no other tenants awake that early in the morning, and the ride down to the lobby was quiet save for the drone of elevator music. Isabella was just thankful that whatever the hell was bothering Moll hadn’t affected the circuits – crashing down to the first floor on an elevator that had suddenly decided to stop working because it didn’t believe in magic was not how she wanted to start her day. She did throw Moll a few glances on the way down, but Moll’s face was still resolute, mask-like.

Isabella passed through the revolving doors of the apartment lobby (“ _always, no sometimes, think it’s me_ ”), the morning sun beating down on her for the briefest of moments before the world changed with a heartbeat and a chill and she stepped into a bizarre wonderland of ice-frosted evergreens and a carpet of brilliant white snow. The transition from the real world to the Nevernever had been seamless, a mere breath of effort for the wizard who stepped into the Way behind her. It wasn’t a Way Isabella recognized though, and she glanced over her shoulder to see the last vestiges of her apartment vanish. She gave Moll a long look as her knee-high boots sunk to mid-calf in the snow.

“New shortcut?”

“Lea suggested it.”

“We couldn’t have taken a path through Summer?”

“Unless you wanted to encounter some nasty dryads.”

Isabella looked around. _Are you trying to teach me a lesson, Moll?_ “Never liked dryads much.” She took a few steps into Winter, the subzero temperatures not bothering her enough for her teeth to start chattering. “You’re not going to leave me to get eaten by unicorns this time, are you?”

“They weren’t going to hurt you,” Moll replied with a wolfish smile, stepping into the snow and beginning to head down the winding trail. Isabella followed her.

“They had _venom_.” She clasped her hands behind her back as they walked, unable to hide the amusement in her voice. “I could have died.”

“You lassoed one and rode it all the way into your father’s meeting with the leaders of the Jade Court.”

“You closed the Way right in my face! What else was I supposed to do? Besides, you did the same thing with a wild reindeer. One of _Kringle’s_ wild reindeer, might I add. And crashed _Titania’s_ cotillion.”

Moll gave a quiet half-laugh. Now or never.

“So now are you going to tell me why you’re in such a bad mood?” Isabella watched Moll out of the corner of her eye - her friend had always been very good at hiding her thoughts and emotions around the White Court, Isabella included. She wasn’t sure if there was some sort of freakish spell that allowed Moll to remain hidden, to be unaffected by Isabella’s usual friendliness. She had to learn to think smarter, think swifter when around her. Right now, she was jumping ahead, forcing her way through a conversation with bullish intensity. “Or are you going to leave me guessing?”

Moll waved her hand irritably. The air suddenly seemed chillier – damn her magic. “You really want to play that game right now, Bella?”

 _Oh, that’s what this is. Without even hearing my side of the story. You bitch_. Isabella halted in the snow, fists planted on her hips and dark brow skewed in thought; Moll continued walking. She waited for several more moments, lips pursed in thought. _Everyone must play your game, is that how it goes? You’re more radical than the kine, you idiot_. “Moll, you’re not even gonna hear me out, huh?”

Moll shrugged, still trudging through the snow, the wisps of amusement that had alighted on their conversation earlier vanishing in the chill wind. “You lied to me, Isabella. I don’t take kindly to liars.”

“You still showed up.”

“I keep my word.”

“ _Empty night_ , you are a world-class loon.” Moll looked over her shoulder, dark eyes narrowing in exasperation. Isabella held up her hands in a placating gesture. “I’m going to lay it on you - there’s no doubt that you’re a brilliant piece, okay? But you walked into this one all by yourself. I’m not the one going around rattling faeries and pissing off the White Council. That’s all you, Moll – today, I’m just the messenger.”

Moll eyed her. “You could have warned me.”

It was Isabella’s turn to roll her eyes. “What part of “Dad wants you to come to his party and I’m pretty sure it’s not the _best_ idea in the world” wasn’t a warning?” She sighed, some of the annoyance seeping from her expression. Did she even _get_ it? “Dad keeps an eye on all of us. This is one adventure that you probably don’t want to embark on- yes, I _know_ you, don’t give me that look. You’re thinking of it like a challenge. There _is_ no challenge with my dad. I’ve had brothers and sisters who’ve thought of it like that and you know what? They’re not here anymore and they’re _blood_.”

Isabella felt a sharp pang of loss as she always did when she thought of the siblings she had lost over the years (poor Charlotte, poor Alistair), warmed with a wary pride. Despite their wild personalities, their father had seduced all of his daughters into submission and quietly passed the death sentence to any of the sons – but Charlotte and Alistair and even long-dead Ursula had balked at it, tried to break free...and had paid for their insubordination with their lives. Theirs was a warning and a sick reminder of what would happen if Isabella ever tried to break free of her restraints.

 _If_ she was ever caught.

The two stood in silence for a moment. Finally, Moll lifted her head thoughtfully. “You’re not my caretaker.”

“No.” Isabella shook her head. “I’m your _friend_.” She closed the gap between them, taking Moll’s hands in her own and looking up into her eyes. Moll had always been a very tall woman, several inches taller than Isabella herself. She saw no fear in her friend’s eyes - no, Moll wasn’t afraid of anything - but there was apprehension there, a wariness of the situation she was about to step into. That was smart - even with Isabella there, they were still stepping into a pit of serpents and daggers and lies. “You may think I’m reckless sometimes, Moll. But I’ve been around long enough to know when Dad’s becoming ambitious. Things are spiraling too quickly nowadays. I really don’t want to see anything happen to you. Just...don’t be bullheaded, like you always are.”

A wicked black glimmer sparked in Moll’s eyes. “Innocent little me? People simply don’t _appreciate_ my sense of humor.”

“Your big mouth is always getting us in trouble.” Isabella’s lips quirked upwards into her signature smirk. “Don’t play that with Dad though, you get me?” She leaned up to kiss Moll on the cheek, the only display of affection that Moll ever allowed her, and then pulled away, still grasping the taller woman’s hand in one of her hand. “Now, c’mon. If you’d just trusted me instead of being all suspicious and the like, we would have been there by now.”

Moll didn’t allow herself to be pulled - no, Moll _never_ followed anyone if she could help it - and Isabella had to settle for trying to keep up with her long strides through the snow. It didn’t make her short of breath, but Moll’s legs were impossibly long. After several minutes traipsing through the trails of Winter in snow that was steadily getting deeper, Moll glanced back at Isabella who flipped her the bird. Moll laughed that rich, infectious laugh that was a harbinger of both life and headaches.

A few moments later, they were stepping from the icy chill of the Winter forest into the rolling green hills outside of Fairfax - and into evening. The snow on Isabella’s boots melted into ectoplasm, sticking stubbornly to the leather and blue-green grass. The abrupt change in temperature and time didn’t cause Isabella to pause much - although she did give Moll a pointed look, looking down at the men’s watch dangling from her thin wrist. “Evening? Really?”

“I like making an entrance.”

“We were only in the Nevernever for twenty minutes.”

Moll laughed, throwing her head back. “I remember one time when we were lost in Summer for two weeks and we came back and only seven seconds had passed.” They strode across the lawn towards the mansion that lay low and cool and menacing in the humid evening air. Fireflies danced from one perfectly trimmed area of the lawn to the next, and crickets buzzed ominously as the violet glow of evening fell. Isabella leapt from the grass towards the driveway that led up the mansion, gravel crunching beneath her heels. Moll followed at a more leisurely pace, unbothered by the cloying heat that had always unsettled Isabella. She remembered a night similar to this, over one hundred years ago, when a sister she adored had taken her own life.

The driveway that curved in front of the stairs ( _honestly_ , Isabella thought, disgruntled, _must Father continue with the same predictable architecture for all of the main houses_ ) was already lined with cars - a white custom Rolls, two silver-backed Aston Martins, and a chrome-plated Bugatti were immediately identifiable as her sisters’ vehicles. She didn’t bother trying to pinpoint the others - the other Raiths, cousins and aunts and uncles so far removed that a goddamn mapmaker would be needed to figure out the nearest relation, didn’t concern her. Besides, most of them were tedious at best, too busy planning plans and scheming schemes to have a little fun in their lives.

“So how many freaks should I expect here?”

Isabella kicked a pebble into one of the glossy black tires of Lara’s Rolls. “Oh, I think you’re the only one. It’s all politics, and the White Council is too stuffy to send an emissary.” She winked at Moll who was looking up at the massive front door thoughtfully. “Don’t worry about offending too many people. Your sort of insolence is exactly what my family needs.”

“Oh?”

“Believe me, if you talk to Felicia or Lara for at least five minutes, you’ll understand.”

The twin doormen stood on either side of the elaborate doors, bowing stiffly to both Isabella and Moll as they came in. Isabella kissed one of them playfully on the cheek - the twin bodyguards were an ingenious addition to the usual servants that followed the Raiths like obedient dogs - and felt him shudder infinitesimally beneath her fingertips. _This is new. Moll, please don’t attract too much attention tonight. He’s moving the pieces already. Be invisible, be less than a pawn, vanish_. Outwardly, she kept the brilliant smile on her face as she passed from the foyer into the ballroom, Moll at her side, drawn by the voices of both vampires, fae, and kine alike.

As usual, Isabella was assaulted by the opulence of the ballroom – the house could always deceive passersby, making them think that even a mansion of such sprawling size couldn’t contain a ballroom so gargantuan. Everywhere she looked there were kine servants dressed in whites and grays, vampires of three Courts in exquisitely-cut suits and evening gowns (the Black Court, of course, was never invited to these sorts of functions), and fae in the enchanting blues and greens that were intrinsic to them. Isabella gave pause, her fingers gently touching Moll’s wrist as a warning.

 _There’ve never been this many_ , Isabella thought in brief dismany. _Damn, I miscalculated_. The sprawling number of guests would have made anyone else fume or blush at the state of their outfit, but Isabella only crossed her arms and met all the disapproving glares with a raised eyebrow and the haughty disposition that came with being the daughter of the White King. She traded glances with Moll. _Arrive unfashionably late, leave unfashionably early. How many of my blood can I irritate tonight?_

She was about to head towards a doe holding a tray of blood-red liquid when she noticed Moll walking towards a group of faeries standing by one of the six enormous pillars in the room. She was about to follow her – Moll’s idea of diplomacy involved insults and magic – when a cool hand touch her shoulder, halting her mid-step. She turned around, already rolling her eyes, and faced her eldest sister who was a vision in white silk and lace. “Yes, Lara?”

Lara, for her part, didn’t seem fazed by Isabella’s blasé attitude – clearly, she had developed an immunity for it. Damn. “You’re late.”

“The trip through the Nevernever lasted longer than I thought it would,” Isabella replied. She grinned, wondering if she could crack Lara’s rock-solid composure before the night was through. It was a game she played often and loudly – usually, Lara just ended up exasperated. “Did you miss me, big sis?”

“One hardly misses a constant headache when it finally goes away.”

“So you did miss me!” Isabella laughed and, just to irritate her sister even further, threw her arms around her in a bear-crushing hug. She felt Lara stiffen beneath her embrace and held in a laugh. Sure, her older sister may have been a force to be reckoned with, but Isabella knew the precise ways to slowly grind her nerves (although Isabella was quite positive that given a choice, Lara would quite happily throw her under a train if it meant ridding herself of her). “Wait until I tell the others, sister mine. They’re going to be _thrilled_.”

“I doubt it,” Lara replied dryly, pulling away. Isabella caught a sliver of annoyance in her eyes - it wouldn’t do to be seen being so affectionate in front of so many emissaries. She watched as her sister looked in Moll’s direction, her eyes narrowing. “So you brought the wizard.”

Isabella sighed, sobering quickly. For all of her energetic tendencies and carefree words, she was still a daughter of Raith - paranoia ran deep in her veins. “Father has been following me again.”

“Why would you be surprised? You’ve been herding the kine quite well these past several years - I’m sure he was only making sure that you were keeping on task.” A faint look of disapproval crossed Lara’s brow. “If he only knew half of what sort of things you’ve been involving yourself in, you’d never be allowed to leave the main house.”

Isabella nearly scoffed at that one. Both she and Lara knew that the reason why she was allowed to go unsupervised for years was because unlike many of her sisters, her schemes actually worked. She had eventually chalked it up to being insatiably curious about the kine and their culture (honestly, for mortals, they _did_ manage to throw the best parties), and being able to mingle up their desires with what they thought was their apparent well-being. Isabella had been born to push boundaries, to nudge society closer and closer to a more liberal outlook. It was a tedious process, but in the meantime, she was supplied with booze and sex and drugs that didn’t quite work as well against her demon as it did on the does and bucks.

Suddenly coming under the attention of her father though felt like a surprise audit. The timing was hellish, and Isabella only had to guess why. She had related her suspicions to Moll - possibly a dumb move in hindsight, but Moll was a friend. Her father’s influence was growing exponentially. Perhaps in another century, the Reds and the Blacks and the Jades would cease to exist altogether and fall under one vampiric banner. It was an alarming thought, but Isabella could see the skeleton of the grand plan, and the sheer scope of it terrified her.

 _He’s making sure the pieces are in place_ , Isabella thought. _Moll is an unknown variable. Shit, how did I miss that_? From her father’s point of view, any persons of interest steadily gaining favor with his offspring must either be eliminated or turned into a reliable piece on the massive chess board that they all played. Moll wasn’t invisible - her reputation preceded her like the rolling gray clouds of a tumultuous summer storm, upending everything in her path with that arrogant attitude and smile. Isabella had been looking at things wrong, not seeing the whole picture for once - she had been thinking of the Court in general, but not of her father’s intentions specifically.

She realized Lara was studying her expression intently and cursed again, allowing a smile to hide the sudden worry she felt in her stomach. “Father dearest doesn’t care about what I do,” she replied with carelessness she didn’t feel. “As long as I don’t embarrass him too much, he’ll let me have my fun.”

Lara pursed her lips. “You should tread more cautiously with those you call friends. It’ll be the death of us all if you don’t.” She looked as if she were about to say more, but something caught her attention, causing her eyes to narrow at something just beyond Isabella’s shoulder.

A chill went down Isabella’s spine.

She turned just in time to see the crowd part like the seas swept aside in Exodus. Even from several dozen feet away, she could feel the sudden iciness that gripped the air, a demanding presence that had nothing to do with overt sensuality and everything to do with sheer _power_. It was pressure building on her chest, in her mind, and against her demon which both cowered away from the familiarity of it all and longed for more. She was torn between taking a step towards the handsome figure cloaked in pure white suit and backing away in terror.

The White King had arrived.

And he was making his way directly towards Moll.

Isabella could only watch as Moll finally seemed to realize that she was becoming the center of attention in the room. _Can’t she feel him? Can’t she..._? Dumb question. Of course she did. Isabella had warned her, and Moll was no idiot. She watched as the wizard halted in her conversation with the faeries - who almost quite unnoticeably did something spectacular and faded into the background - and turned to face the tall dark-haired vampire who had quietly approached her. The rest of the music and the conversation in the room died.

 _Father, what are you doing_? Isabella began to take a few steps towards the two, a fierce desire to protect her friend briefly overriding her fear of her father. But she felt Lara’s cool touch on her forearm, a silent warning to stay the hell where she was. Isabella snapped her head back to give her sister a furious look, but Lara only shook her head, mouthing, “Wait.”

In the silence that choked that room, Isabella could hear her father speak. “I see the White Council has decided to grace us with their presence after all. Consider us humbled by your attendance.”

Isabella groaned mentally. Other than quickly outing her as a wizard to anyone foolish enough not to yet realize it, it was the worse thing to say to Moll. She imagined her friend inwardly grinding her teeth. It was deliberate provocation. _Don’t say anything stupid, Moll_.

“You must be the White King. I’ve heard about you.” Moll did not bow her head. She frowned at Raith appraisingly and finally gave him a wolfish smile. “I imagined you to be taller.”

Silence. It was as if the air had rushed out of everyone’s lungs in one collective breath. Isabella’s eyes widened and she resisted taking a step back. _Oh, Moll. You are a goddamned bullheaded smartass idiot._ She felt Lara’s grip tighten around her forearm. They knew of their father’s temper. No one could dare say anything.

And then Raith shocked them all by throwing back his head and laughing. This was not the warm laughter that Moll or Isabella had been gifted with - it was cold and amused and haughty and only out of sheer reflex did a few in the crowd of Raiths and faeries titter in agreement. The kine remained starkly silent. Isabella watched, stunned, as her father reached out to take Moll’s hand, grace and aplomb and chivalry wrapped mockingly in the near-courteous bow. “My dear little Isabella, you’ve forgotten your manners.”

Isabella started when her father said her name. She shot a look at Moll who nodded, dark eyes shimmering with amusement and only the vaguest confusion. There was a game afoot here and it was a game that Isabella could not and would not draw herself into. This was beyond her skill - the kine she had mastered, her own blood she could never.

She felt Lara release her arm, could nearly hear her eldest sister thinking behind her, and approached the pair. She gave Moll one more irritable look before turning to her father, quickly lowering her eyes. This close, his presence was suffocating and she remembered too many times...a kiss...a caress...

 Her hands balled into fists, and she pushed the fear behind the buoyancy of the nonchalant mask she usually wore. _Oh, Moll. You don’t know what you’re doing_.

 “My Lord,” she murmured, head still bowed. “If it so pleases, may I introduce to you Margaret Gwendolyn LeFay?”

:::

Time’s an odd thing.

It speeds up and slows down all while still ticking away the seconds at the same it has for the past millions of years. It’s depressing, honestly.

It was probably inevitable that Moll became the White King’s consort only a few months after that night. As far as I know, he never had a wizard to enthrall before, and Dad does like to vary his collections. I hated him for it at first, but eventually, after several nights, he...made me see his point. I didn’t argue. Couldn’t argue. Hell of a thing to have a magnificent bastard for a father.

It was...hard to see her bend to his will so often, even though she was still incredibly insolent. I didn’t see her as much after that summer as I had before. He kept her on leash, and instructed all of us to continue as we had. Lara planned, I bulldozed. Didn’t matter much. Years have a weird habit of up and passing without you really noticing. Something was building, something was lost. Moll told me this one of the few times I got to see her during those years. She never lost that spine of iron at least.

She was still a world class loon though.

And then one day, Moll was gone. Vanished into thin air. I was glad that she had managed to break free of those chains that kept the rest of us in place even as I comforted my poor, doomed little brother - the son she had borne during those years of imprisonment - when he cried himself to sleep countless nights. I told him stories, disguised as fairy tales, of his mother as often as I could, trying to keep out some of the more risque adventures (and honestly, what sort of picture of a caring big sis would I be painting of his mom if I told him those stories). I couldn’t fix that void that she had left and I didn’t try. I was his sister, not his mother. Moll and I were alike but I couldn’t replace her.

Who would want to?

But you can’t escape the White King, you know? My father was furious and one day, a few years later, I heard Moll had died. I should have left it alone - curiosity, cat, all that jazz. But Moll had been my friend, one of my best, and...well, when you hear that about a friend, you want to know. So I looked into it - and who cared what I did? I'm the party animal, the wild child with the multi-colored hair and the loose tongue. My father was and still is preoccupied with who knew what those days and Lara - well, Lara thought I was a high-functioning nuisance.

So I looked...and I wasn't surprised by what I found.

Moll always did have a taste for the dramatic.


	16. Epilogue

**| Epilogue |**

_I shall be telling this with a sigh_   
_Somewhere ages and ages hence:_   
_Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,_   
_I took the one less traveled by_   
_And that has made all the difference_

:::

_Los Angeles, California_

“This is _intolerable_.”

Lara watches her aunt with languid amusement from behind her desk, surrounded by several carefully placed manila folders filled with contracts made up of subtly-veiled threats towards major corporations of Raith interest. Her aunt, still as lovely and urbane as ever even after all of these centuries, is nearly quivering with rage, her ice-blue eyes sliced through with molten silver. Hate radiates off her, so thick and cloying that it would have cowed another person into intimidated, quivering silence.

Lara is not one of those people.

She smiles faintly at the sight and then goes back to signing her name on a few documents, each finished with an elegant flourish before she moves quickly and efficiently on to the next one. She is rarely able to indulge in simple paperwork anymore, not with the sort of work she does most of the time to train the kine to carnally indulge in their desires. It is strangely relaxing – it is neither the hunt nor the silly little bucks or does that writhe in front of the camera. There is a taste of power here, the tiny bite that her father allows her as his right-hand. There's something rather intoxicating about that little sip of power.

“How _dare_ you suggest to your father that–”

“–that you’re obsolete?” Lara doesn’t look up from the papers in front of her, but she can still sense the rage directed at her, one hundredfold from the annoyance her aunt showed towards her from her childhood. This has been building for ages and ages. Her demon curls around her thoughts, dancing through her blood, touches her words with a smoky insistence. “Dear aunt, I’ve done nothing of the sort. You’ve convinced him of that all on your own, ever since Marsilio’s death.”

 _So much more than you thought you would_ , she muses, pausing momentarily in her reading. Things _have_ certainly changed since her uncle’s death fifty years ago, but those are the visible changes that only finally reflect the slow and subtle workings Lara has put in place over the decades and centuries. It had been so easy to ingratiate herself to her father, ever since those days before the Reformation she had inadvertently created. The years following had only given her childishly easy openings to show that she was far more subtle and ingenious than her aunt or uncle could ever hope to be.

Her father’s daughter, she’s heard people say. But she only smiles and nods at those words while she inwardly despises them. Her father, for all of his scheming and seduction, is growing older, doesn’t take the same risks as he used to. This is a weakness she cannot abide. The only reason the walls have yet to crumble down upon their heads is that Lara is smart enough to see that something is wrong, though she dare not confront her lord with those concerns. No, she has never rushed into things. These were the mistakes of her other brothers and sisters, mistakes they had paid for with their lives. She has an easy but steely sense of self-preservation. She can watch and she can wait.

Above all things, Lara is terrifyingly patient.

“You would not _dare_ to speak to me like that if my brother were here.” Lucrezia’s voice, thought soft, is shot through with poison, enough to scald skin and thought. Lara can feel her aunt’s demon rage against her thoughts, seeking to conquer, to humiliate. She allows a slow, thoughtful smile to curl onto her face and she finally looks up, sitting back in her chair. She meets Lucrezia’s eyes evenly, violet-hued gray to ice-blue, and she watches as her aunt’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. Yes, things have changed and only now the other vampire seems to understand. She doesn’t even allow her Hunger to awaken completely, merely lift its head to gaze at Lucrezia through Lara’s own eyes.

It is enough. She sees Lucrezia shudder, hears the sharp intake of breath that is equal parts surprise, horror, and _want_.

 _Sweet aunt_ , Lara thinks, tapping her pen against the papers in front of her in an almost thoughtless gesture. _I am not the naïve niece you used to know and you’re more the fool for thinking your little hierarchy would stand._

“You can continue to hide behind my father. Perhaps you wish to give Natalia another full-blooded sibling.” She tilts her head as Lucrezia visibly stiffens. “Come now, Zia. You didn’t think I would never figure it out, did you? You’ve hated me for years for being more favored than your own daughter and you’ve done little to hide it. A mistake on your part.” She waves her hand negligently, turning her attention back to her papers - she already knows that with a few words of confirmation that she has completely torn her aunt asunder. Every sweet, cherished piece of what Lucrezia feels is rightfully hers has already passed on and has long since been Lara’s. “Now, unless you have pressing business that involves something other than your bruised ego, I have other matters to attend to.”

She doesn’t know (or really care for that matter) how long Lucrezia stands there, the shreds of her dignity still wrapped stubbornly around her. The other predator is bruised, licking its wounds, promising retribution that Lara knows will never come. She has made herself too valuable an asset to the White King, too important a piece in the game to lose.

She’s learned how to play the game too well and she cannot stand weak links.

Eventually, Lucrezia leaves. Lara moves onto the next folder, perusing its contents with the sort of indolent intensity that she usually reserves for the hunt. A name stands out against the myriads of words and a small frown crosses her face. She flips through the remaining papers in the bundle, carefully reading through the rest of the briefing.

After several moments, flecks of silver moonlight glimmer in her eyes and she reaches for the phone, lazily dialing in a number. The phone rings once, twice. And then-

“Hello?” A male, his voice heavily accented and very familiar. Lara smiles.

“It’s been awhile, old friend.”

There’s a pause and she knows it’s not to place her voice. The man laughs a moment later, a cheerful warmth. “Ah, Lara. So wonderful to hear your voice! Have I finally persuaded you to talk business again?”

Lara smiles. One piece at a time.

“Mixing pleasure with business is my specialty, Arturo.”

:::

_Copenhagen, Denmark_

The copse of trees in Kongens Have isn’t as frequented as other parts of the park. There are immense sculptures with histories that spanned centuries, sunlit patches that beg to be played upon, and winding paths that take one throughout the park and throughout stories. The trees in a little, unremarkable cluster can hardly be considered attention worthy and are passed by with scarcely a thought.

A beautiful young woman carrying a small nosegay of honeysuckles, bellflowers, white poppies, and pink carnations weaves her way through the trees, keeping the hood pulled over her head. Despite the precaution, some passersby get a quick glimpse of her face and pause in their own activities, staring at her as she goes by. Whispers immediately begin and although she hears most of them, she ignores all of them.

She finally approaches one of the grand trees of the park – it is by no means the largest or most beautiful or oldest of the trees that grows in Kongens Have, but that doesn’t matter to her. She knows why this particular tree is important, and she carefully places the nosegay at the base of the tree. A breeze gently kisses the petals of the carnations and poppies, causing them to shiver in the cool autumn air.

“I still think about you, you know,” Natalia Raith murmurs. “And I’m sorry I haven’t come as often as I promised. Papa’s paranoia has only grown in the past two decades or so and he watches us so much.” She closes her eyes, shaking her head. “There are some things to be thankful for, I suppose.”

She hesitates briefly, imagining her long-dead brother gesturing for her to continue with that same benevolent smile that she always remembered he had. It has been nearly three hundred years since he has been gone, but his memory, more than any of her other deceased siblings, still remains with her. She thinks that it is perhaps that she had been with him up until his dying moment. She had spoken with him the night before he had burned and she had stood in the crowd when he...

Her throat tightens even now, centuries later, recalling that day. She had turned away eventually. It had been remarkable though – he never screamed even as the flames consumed him and hid him from view.

“You should see how our little brother has grown,” Natalia continues. “He’s smart, much smarter than so many of the others give him credit for. If it wasn’t for Papa, I would like to be the proper older sister, to care for him like I did for you. Only Isabella ever dares risk it though. Even so, he probably hates all of us, thinks we don’t care about him at all...” She stops, a measure of guilt weighing upon her. The love between her siblings is strong, but there is something inherently selfish about it. They would protect their own, but only so far – it is why no one had protested when any of their brothers or sisters died lest the same scrupulous attention came upon them. Even Natalia herself is guilty of it; even if it would have been fruitless to attempt to stop Papa, no one had dared even _try_.

She’s learned by now to wear a mask of indifference and aloofness, having put it on long ago when he was still so young. She remembers the looks of confusion and hurt when one by one his sisters slowly drifted away and put up that wall. One day, she thinks, she would like to tell her youngest brother how much she cares about him, how much she wants to see him safe and happy and loved.

But until then, she must be heartless. She must be a monster.

She kneels down on the thick grass that surrounded the tree, the only remaining marker of Victor’s grave. She had at least made sure that he had a proper burial, in a place that even Papa wouldn’t suspect. If only she had been able to do the same for her other little brothers and sisters, gone now for decades and centuries.

“You might think it strange of me to continue coming here and laying these flowers on your grave – and the same flowers, all the time.” She reaches out to brush her fingers across the silken petals of the carnations. “You wouldn’t remember Tristan. He died almost two hundred years before you were even born. But he was very poetic – he was a Romantic before Romantics were popular. He taught me the language of flowers. Silly to think about now...”

She folds her hands on her lap, looking down at the bouquet. “I think it’s appropriate. If I knew whatever happened to the others, I’d do the same for them. The others say it’s a weakness of mine, but...I loved you all. I wish...” She sighs, shaking her head. “But wishing isn’t practical. It never has been for those like us. I don’t dream about those days in Italy anymore – when I go there now, it’s not the same place of my childhood. It’s grown up. It’s changed.”

She falls silent. After several more minutes of listening to the soft rustle of leaves in the branches overhead and the shouting and laughter of the park’s patrons, she rises silently to her feet. This time, there really is nothing left to be said. It always seemed that Victor, when he was alive, had been able to read her heart anyway – she hops it was no different now.

“I miss you, little brother.” She never says good-bye – there is something far too final about good-byes and she had already said it once after that horrible day ages and ages ago. She nods her head in a brief farewell, turns on her heel, and leaves.

No one disturbs the flowers.

:::

_London, England_

Outside of a small café in the West End, a trio of impossibly beautiful young people attracts attention that would not be unheard of in the usual theatres that make the neighborhood world-famous. The poor waitress who had the misfortune of serving them has already fumbled through the order, her round cheeks flushed with embarrassment and arousal. The other patrons and dozens of passersby turn their heads, lips parted and eyes wide as thoughts equal parts erotic and demanding rush through their minds.

One of the two young women lifts a cigarette to her lips, watching a young buck with smoky gray eyes as she lights it with a chrome-plated lighter. Her lips split into a wide, playful smile as he shifts underneath her piercing gaze, uncomfortable for suddenly obvious reasons.

“Madeline.”

Felicia watches with a bored frown as Madeline’s twin sends her a disapproving and envious look. Madeline’s laughter echoes across the other tables and conversations fall silent. She doesn’t know why she bothers with the twins – they’re more blatant in their desires than she is, and Felicia herself hasn’t been a fan of overly subtle maneuvers for over a century. Why bother with words coated in double and triple meanings when asking for some things outright granted her the same things?

She stirs her tea with a spoon, spearing the lemon wedge that floats at the top a few times. The twins have asked for her – a rare thing for them to do. Madeline and Madrigal have always played their own games, far away from the rest of the family.

“What sort of things are you two up to?” she asks finally, irritated with their coy conversation and Madeline’s unashamed flirting. “I wouldn’t dare dream that you two traveled all the way to London just to have afternoon tea with me.” Madeline and Madrigal share looks and then look back at her the same time. Felicia isn’t sure if the centuries have exacerbated their tendency to mimic each other’s movements or finish their thoughts, but being in their presence for more than a few moments has already aggravated her nerves.

“We’ve a proposition for you, cos.”

“ _Madrigal_ has a proposition for you. I’d rather stay out of it.”

Felicia sits back in her chair, absently twisting a finger around a stray curl that has dislodged itself from her ponytail. “A proposition? I suppose it’s something rather naughty if you haven’t taken it to my father or Lara first.” She watches as they both stiffen instinctively and sighs. Oh, lovely. Of course it would be something that would probably end up with her neck on the line.

She is about to voice _her_ opinion on their shared stupidity when Madrigal surprisingly recovers faster than she anticipated. “Things are building, cos. Things that are going to tear the Courts apart if we don’t do something about it.” He pauses as if to add emphasis on his words and Felicia manages not to scoff at him. “Have you ever wondered, Felicia, if we are all on the right side?”

Felicia’s eyes glitter – she is suddenly angry with his words and she isn’t sure why. “And who put this your idea in your head? Your alliances in Malvora?”

Madeline’s eyes narrow. “You unassuming twit-

Madrigal holds up his hand to stop his sister’s tirade before it can even begin. He watches Felicia with a haughty gaze that she has seen too many times in other people throughout her lifetime, people who’ve misjudged her very poorly, putting her in a box before she has had a chance to speak. She narrows her eyes at her two cousins, looking from one to the other. Madeline’s annoyance is palpable, but there is wickedness barely concealed in that look – this is not the same cousin she used to argue with over perfumes and dresses. And Madrigal, too – he is becoming twisted by his dealings with the Malvora, a poorly hidden secret within the Courts.

Felicia doesn’t believe in alliances, hasn’t done so since her days in imperial India. If she ever makes those sorts of bonds again, it _will_ only be with her neck on the line. What Madrigal and Madeline want is a betrayal of her family – she can sense that even though they have admittedly hidden it well. And that is something unheard of. Ursula wanted to usurp the King’s power and Matthias hated them all, but no one would outright betray all of them.

Still, she has no proof to say either or and Felicia is nothing but prudent. She gives them both a half-lidded gaze before picking up her cup and gently sipping the scorching tea. “No. I think I shan’t, if it’s all the same to you. I rather enjoy not being on Lara or Father’s bad side.”

Madrigal frowns. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I don’t make alliances, cousin,” Felicia says with finality in her voice. She truly is irritated now. Her cousins are foolhardy, too brash. What they want is for her to run out into the open without protection and hope for the best. She refuses. “Perhaps when the world is ending, we can talk. But you’ll have to bring me more proof than your word if you want me to join your secret little council.”

Madeline tosses her hair over her shoulder – a waiter nearly upends his tray onto a nearby table. “Is that the way of it then?”

Felicia gives them both a long, appraising look. _You’re mad. Both of you._

“It seems so.”

:::

_Miami, Florida_

The roar of the Harley is nearly drowned by the crashing waves against the shore. The days are getting shorter and twilight has already extended itself down the beachfront and the restaurants and stores marching down the way. The last golden rays of sunlight have turned scarlet, disappearing over the smoky blue horizon. Some of those passing by give the motorcycle and its rider a curious look, some more appraising than others at a glimpse of her modified mohawk.

She straddles the motorcycle and turns it off, but doesn’t dismount. The young man who has been leaning against the railing overlooking the ten-foot drop into the Atlantic turns his head slightly so that she can only see his profile. “Elisa.”

She jerks her head briefly upward in a half-nod of greeting. “Luka.” Neither of them are ones for warm or overly formal greetings - there is more than enough affection behind their names for them both to realize that they’re glad to see the other. Elisa absently kicks out the kickstand and then sits back, absently adjusting her riding gloves. “You’ve been busy. It’s been awhile.”

Luka shrugs. “Terrorists.”

Elisa snorts, pulling a carton of cigarettes from within her motorcycle jacket. “Terrorists are all the rage these days.” It’s reason enough to keep a low profile and Elisa knows that Luka works deep within the folds of the American government, feeding secrets back his family for their own advancement. Elisa sometimes wonders about joining him until she eventually realizes she would be far too conspicuous with her piercings and tattoos. Despite Luka’s attractiveness, he still has the ability to melt into the background.

She envies him.

“Victoria?”

“Good.” He pauses. “Better.”

Elisa manages to light her cigarette and inhales the fumes deeply. She wonders if her friendship with Luka and Victoria is a godsend - by remaining within the confidence of the Raiths’ own oracle (not that mean even know that) and her father’s inside man, she is privy to all of the secrets that lay within the family, oftentimes before any of her other sisters know. She doesn’t embroil herself in the mind games that some of them play, and for good reason - she has always disliked being considered less than a person or more of a _piece_ in that infinite game of wills.

She flicks some of the ash on the ground, closing her eyes. She doesn’t admit that the reason she wanted Luka here was to make sure he was okay. It’s always so hard to tell in the patchwork of lies and deception that make up their lives - she feels as if she’s closer to her two cousins than with any of her siblings. Maybe that’s how things are supposed to be. She remembers asking Victoria about it once, but poor, fragile little Victoria had only shaken her head, murmurings things that were muddled.

It takes her a moment to realize Luka is speaking and she shakes her head clear of contemplation. “I’m sorry?”

Luka gives her a wry smile. “How do you feel about wizards? Victoria has seen them in our future.”

Elisa weaves the cigarette around her fingers, a dark eyebrow raised in disbelief. “Don’t tell me the Council is actually interested in us now. We haven’t made a play for them since Dad fooled around with that LeFay woman.” And _that_ had certainly been a moment in their history that no one cared to repeat ever again. Elisa had liked the woman - she had been one of the few that was blatantly insolent right to her father’s face - but the aftermath of her departure had been hell.

She watches as her cousin shrugs, turning back to his vigil over the ocean. “She doesn’t say, only that there seems to be magic and uncertainty and darkness in our future.”

Elisa gives him a flat look, knowing that he can’t see it. “Oh. How very specific.”

“You know her visions come and go, Elisa. There is someone very close to us who is going to involve this entire family in a war. I thought you’d just like to know.”

“I’ll keep an eye out.” She finally swings her leg over the motorcycle, jumping off and walking over to him. She nudges her shoulder against his as the wind starts to pick up, a sign of camaraderie from their youth. “You’re worried about her.”

“I worry about my family. We’ve been standing on a precipice for far too long.”

Elisa says nothing, only looks down at her gloved hands. True enough. Burned and burned again, that’s their family. She is uncertain how they hang on to their title - perhaps the other houses simply aren’t smart enough or strong enough to take them down, but even she knows that’s a lie. Even without Victoria’s visions, she knows things will come to a head very soon. Luka is right to be concerned.

She lets out a puff of smoke, eyeing the horizon. “We’ll make it through. That’s our lot in life.”

Silence for a moment. “You sound so sure.”

Elisa can only laugh.

“We’re Raiths. What doesn’t kill us only makes us plot revenge.”

:::

_Johannesburg, South Africa_

Isabella walks into the church and, ignoring the looks her outfit was getting, seats herself in a confessional, and says, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been...um, let’s see...about five years since my last confession. And there’s been some real kinky stuff in between – there was that orgy in Cabo, some grand theft auto in Vegas, I accidentally got married in Barcelona, and oh my god, I can’t even begin to tell you about the craziness in Sydney...”

“Hello to you too, Isabella.”

Isabella grins mischievously, moving the curtain aside. A priest sits on the other side, one dark eyebrow raised in amused exasperation, and he shakes his head at her when he sees her bright smile. It is difficult to determine his age – his face is mature but unlined and his thick dark hair is shot through with bits of silver. He wears glasses but not the wire-rimmed spectacles that a few of the other clergymen wear. He could be thirty or fifty, and gives no hint as to either or.

Isabella leans into the window. “It’s been awhile, padre.”

“Five years, if you’re to be believed.”

“Well, I would have come sooner.” She tilts forward to kiss him on the nose. “But you know how strict Father can be sometimes – I had to convince Lara that going on a safari in the Sahara is helpful to our general cause. I think she was just glad to get rid of me.” She folds her arms on the wooden panel that separates them, peering at the priest thoughtfully. After a moment or two, she reaches out to gently fix his collar. He let her.

“How’s the family?”

“Oh, same old, same old,” Isabella replies cheerfully, brushing a strand of teal-dyed hair from her face. “Inari’s all grown up now – she’s basically Bambi on stilts and I think she’s got it into her head that she wants to be a vegetarian- don’t laugh! It was a phase!” She swats at the priest whose shoulders are shaking from a repressed chuckle; he artfully dodges out of the way, conceding her point with a small smile instead. “Besides, she actually seems serious about it. I think she wants to try to convince Dad to invest in a hemp company.”

This time, he _does_ laugh, unrestrained cheer. “Oh, I’d love to see that.”

Isabella winks at him – it really has been a long time since she had last seen him. Even though she is quickly approaching her two hundredth year (and she makes sure that every damn birthday was worth it), she knows time is fickle around him. Every time she sees him, she is reminded that she should have acted more quickly all those years ago. She sometimes wonders how it is to be him, but despite her infamous audacity, she never finds herself willing to possibly hurt him by asking. It takes balls on her part to come halfway across the world to meet him anyway – she has long since convinced her sisters through insistent bragging that she had seduced a priest over the years. It is thanks to that and the fact that she is...well that she’s Isabella that lets the story fly. She risks a lot to come see him, but that is fine.

This is the sort of thing she would always do.

She entwines her fingers with his. His Hunger is subdued – her demon can sense that. It has stopped whispering suggestions to her regarding him ages ago – the idea that a weaker predator must be destroyed is laughable. Isabella has too many of her own games set up around the world to be tempted by little things like this. Sure, she doesn’t have Lara’s finesse but Isabella has never been one for detail – she goes for loud, crazy, and adrenaline-pumping.

A long moment drifts between them before Isabella stands up and stretches, her already cropped top riding up even higher. “I’m hungry. What sort of joints do you have around here?”

He laughs at her. “A priest being seen with someone like you? Bella, people would _talk_.”

Isabella waves the laugh away and slips to the other side of the confessional. “Please. The Victorian age has passed, little brother, and I want some corned beef. Come on.”

And with that, she grabs Ellis’ hand and pulls him out of the church, laughing at his half-hearted protests the entire time.

:::

_New York City, New York_

Despite the early hour, the city that never sleeps is already bustling. She leans out on her tiptoes over the balcony railing, peering at the taxis and pedestrians and vendors far below that surround the beauty that is Central Park. It’s going to be a hot day, one of the last few of the year, but she still cradles the cup of hot green tea in her hands, cheerfully humming a tuneless song. She wishes that at least one of her sisters had made the trip with her – even though she had plenty of friends in New York, it wasn’t the same without Elisa or Isabella or even Lara.

She hops back into the room, quickly dressing. She’s forgotten the time that her flight leaves – hopefully Leslie would remember. The summer has been mostly a waste of shopping, blogging, and pretending to be a tourist to every corner New York had to offer. By next week, it would be back to Switzerland and Le Rosey and uniforms and gossiping and far too much homework for any decent person. At least it’s better than Canada, and Dad had never been able to say no to her if she pleaded for something long and hard enough.

She quickly dresses, curses her too-long arms and legs (Natalia says she’s grown a foot for every inch), and grabs her backpack, not bothering to look around the apartment in a farewell glimpse. She’ll be back next summer and the summer after that and the summer after that...

She forgoes taking the elevator down to the first floor and instead sprints down some twenty flights of stairs, skipping steps and jumping over several steps with peals of laughter. When she finally does arrive in the lobby, she is flushed, out of breath, and some of her hair, previously pulled up in a neat ballerina bun, has escaped and is falling every which way around her face.

Leslie, her (bodyguard? Chauffeur? Friend? Crush?), stands in the lobby, looking dapper and severe and _very_ handsome from her sixteen-year-old perspective. She’s still very glad Lara insisted on having someone _interesting_ for her to talk to rather than one of the twins that always seemed to be around the family – the twins made those royal British guards look like party animals.

“Heya Leslie!” She gives him a handshake – hugs were and still are frowned upon – but she sees that she’s managed to get one edge of his lips to tilt upwards into a smile. Success! “Do you remember what time my plane’s supposed to leave?”

“Soon. And we still have to contend with traffic.”

She sighs and then self-consciously tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “What’s the point of having a private jet that takes you wherever you want if you still have to get up way too early in the morning?”

“Did you oversleep, Miss Raith?” She hears amusement in his voice and she sticks her tongue out at him.

“No, I didn’t oversleep. You’re _supposed_ to get eight hours a night – it’s healthy for you.” She hitches her backpack up higher. “Besides, I think that I should have gone home weeks and weeks ago. Why didn’t Dad want me to go to Chicago all summer? I missed _everyone_.”

“Business, Miss Raith, as usual.” He leads her out to the Lincoln town car that sits beneath the apartment building’s extensive awning. She already knows most of her luggage has gone overseas already, waiting for its owner to show up for yet another term of boarding school. “I’m sure he probably thought that you’d be bored if he or Lara were in meetings all the time.”

She nods as if she understands, but she really doesn’t. Whenever she goes home for the summer, at least two of her sisters were there and sometimes Thomas visits too. But she never sees them all together, not since she was very, very young. She’s sure that it isn’t her fault – after all, she is showered with gifts throughout the school year and during the summer, and sometimes Natalia or Felicia make a habit of at least visiting her when she emails them to tell them she’s lonely. She just really hopes they aren’t avoiding the house because they think she doesn’t want them around.

Maybe she’ll have to ask for a family trip to Vail this winter. Isabella will back her up.

She jumps into the back of the car and, as Leslie climbs into the driver’s seat, leans forwards so that her arms are looped around the passenger headrest. “Can we make a stop at that organic coffee shop I like before we have to leave?”

“We’re already running late.”

She makes a face at him. “Pretty please?”

He looks at her in the rearview mirror and seems to be contemplating something. Then he laughs and shakes his head. “Remember to make sure and tell your sister that this was _your_ idea when we get to Chicago late.”

Inari cheers in delight and the car veers out into Manhattan’s early morning traffic.

:::

_Chicago, Illinois_

He flips the card over and over in his hands, gold on white, a chaotic spin of perfectly curved letters and a raised seal in the same glittering hue as the words themselves. He has read it multiple times over the past several days, each time the letters whirling through his thoughts in a haze of annoyance, resignation, curiosity, anger, and deep-seated paranoia. He doesn’t read it now, content with just flipping the card with its intricate folds in his hand until the intent was blurred and it is nothing but white and gold against darkness.

He sighs, sitting back against the plush leather seats. He can see Chicago speeding by in the night, a blur of neon lights and dozens of kine roaming the streets in search of one last party, one last drink, one last friend. It’s been at least a year and a half since he was last in the city, and for good reason. But it looks as if running didn’t lead him much of anywhere except towards a fancy party held by someone who had more than enough reason to want him dead.

 _Story of my life_ , he thinks, finally dropping the card on the floor of the limo. Tonight is important, he already knows - or rather, he _hopes_. Victoria is insane - everyone who thinks they know a thing or two says so - but her words, spoken over tea and coffee one day in Mayfair, have sent him spiraling through time and letters and lies, so many lies. But at the heart of every single last winding road of memory is a singular truth.

A death. A birth.

Someone murmurs something next to him and he presses a kiss into dark hair that is richly scented with flowers. His demon growls against his skin, ghosting across her pale, exposed flesh. He hears her sharp intake of breath, watches her cheeks flush in desire. The ring of brown of her irises, already thin because of the drugs, nearly disappears as arousal courses through her. She mewls quietly, hands on his chest, her thoughts lost and muddled even to his demon. The drugs, the madness, the music - it drowns out everything else.

He doesn’t do anything but pull her closer, an anchor to his own thoughts that have crowded into his head. He could make them go away, bury the child’s hurt and the fervor and the curiosity, with just more than kiss. The demon encourages him to do it, but he and the demon rarely see eye to eye on things when it’s important. She must notice because she looks at him, the faintest confusion marring her brow. “Are you...?”

The car rolls to a stop.

He has a moment to brush the hair and baby’s breath out of her eyes before the driver opens the door. He sighs inwardly, dons his mask, and steps out of the limo. He knows _he’s_ here already - he doesn’t know why, but he just senses that he’s close. _One more monster in your life, I guess..._ He holds out a hand to the girl still sitting within the car, meeting her eyes with the brief but effervescent _something_ that always came when he was with her.

_Ours, ours, ours..._

He quiets the demon, fingers wrapping around hers.

Even as he helps her stand, he can feel them approaching them from behind. He takes a deep breath and turns to look at the two men...and nearly does a double take. He’s thought about this moment for days, weeks, months, years - it was inevitable, he tells himself. Uncertainty and excitement and cautiousness have set him on edge and the moment he finally gets a look at him, face to face, he can only laugh as the sheer _ridiculousness_ of the other man’s outfit lets all the air out of the tension he was holding within himself.

He watches as annoyance crosses the poorly-dressed man’s face. The rumors are true. _You’re too young, too full of yourself._ He can easily tease him and it would be for nothing. He has appearances to maintain, after all - isn’t that why he was sent as bait, as swine to the slaughter? It doesn’t matter though. He’ll have to remember this and the danger behind them and the hilarity of the present and mercilessly joke about it later.

He swears to himself that there _will_ be a later.

He smiles, slips an arm around the girl’s waist ( _our doe, our sweet and beautiful Justine_ ). “Oh, of course. I forget that you probably know very little of the intricacies of the Court.” The words are easy, the smile is easier - there’s so much he wants to say, wants to tell, wants to _ask_. But this is not the night, not when they are already waltzing on ice thinner than a razor blade.

It’s time to walk into the lion’s den.

_But one day, little brother. One day..._

:::

_"Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil..."_


End file.
